summer! summer, not in the lovely country, but in the scorching east end. such heated air! such scorching pavements! oh! how the poor were suffering! how pale the little children looked, as too tired, and perhaps too weak to play, they crept about the baking streets. benevolent people did all they could for these poor babies. hard-working east end clergymen got subscriptions on foot, and planned days in the country, and, where it was possible, sent some away for longer periods. but try as they would, the lives of the children had to be spent with their parents in this region, which truly seems to know the two extremes, both the winter's cold and the summer's heat. it was the first week in august, and the moseleys' little room, still as neat as possible, felt very hot and close. it was in vain to open their dormer windows. the air outside seemed hotter than that within. the pair were having some bread and butter and cold tea, but both looked flushed and tired. they had, in truth, just returned from a long pleasure excursion under their good clergyman, mr. danvers, into the country. mrs. moseley had entire charge of about twenty children, her husband of as many more; so no wonder they looked fagged. but no amount of either heat or fatigue could take the loving sparkle out of mammie moseley's eyes, and she was now expatiating on the delights of the little ones in the grass and flowers.
"there was one dear little toddle, john," she said; "she seemed fairly to lose her head with delight; to see that child rolling over in the grass and clutching at the daisies would do any heart good. eh! but they all did have a blessed day. the sin and shame of it is to bring them back to their stifling homes to-night."
"i tell you what, wife," said john moseley, "the sight of the country fairly made a kitten of yerself. i haven't seen yer so young and so sprightly since we lost our bit of a charlie. and i ha' made up my mind, and this is wot i'll do: we has two or three pounds put by, and i'll spend enough of it to give thee a real holiday, old girl. you shall go into kent for a fortnight. there!"
"no, no, john, nothink of the kind; i'm as strong and hearty as possible. i feels the 'eat, no doubt; but lor'! i ha' strength to bear it. no, john, my man, ef we can spare a couple o' pounds, let's give it to mr. danvers' fund for the poor little orphans and other children as he wants to send into the country for three weeks each."
"but that'll do thee no good," expostulated john moseley, in a discontented voice.
"oh! yes, but it will, john, dear; and ef you don't like to do it for me, you do it for charlie. whenever i exercises a bit of self-denial, i thinks: well, i'll do it for the dear dead lamb. i thinks o' him in the arms of jesus, and nothink seems too hard to give up for the sake of the blessed one as takes such care of my darling."
"i guess as that's why you're so good to 'strays,'" said john moseley. "eh! but, moll, wot 'as come o' yer word, as you'd take no more notice o' them, since them two little orphans runned away last winter?"
"there's no manner o' use in twitting at me, john. a stray child allers reminds me so desp'rate hard o' charlie, and then i'm jest done for. 'twill be so to the end. hany stray 'ud do wot it liked wid mammie moseley. but eh! i do wonder wot has come to my poor little orphans, them and susie! i lies awake at night often and often and thinks it all hover. how they all vanished from us seems past belief."
"well, there seems a power o' 'strays' coming hup the stairs now," said john moseley, "to judge by the noise as they makes. sakes alive! wife, they're coming hup yere. maybe 'tis mr. danvers and his good lady. they said they might call round. jest set the table tidy."
but before mrs. moseley could do anything of the kind, the rope which lifted the boards was pulled by a hand which knew its tricks well, and the next instant bounded into the room a shabby-looking dog with a knowing face. he sprang upon john moseley with a bark of delight; licked mammie moseley's hands; then, seeing the cat in her accustomed corner, he ran and lay down by her side. the moment toby saw the cat it occurred to him that a life of ease was returning to him, and he was not slow to avail himself of it. but there was no time to notice toby, nor to think of toby, for instantly he was followed by maurice and cecile and, immediately after them, a dark-eyed boy, and then a great big man, and last, but not least, a fair-haired and beautiful young woman.
it was at this young woman mammie moseley stared even more intently than at cecile. but the young woman, taking cecile's hand, came over and knelt on the ground, and, raising eyes brimful of tears, said:
"mammie, mammie, i am susie! and cecile has brought me back to you!"
* * * * *
over the confusion that ensued—the perfect babel of voices—the endless exclamation—the laughter and the tears—it might be best to draw a veil.
suffice it to say, that this story of a brave endeavor, of a long pilgrimage, of a constant purpose, is nearly ended. lovedy and her party spent a few days in london, and then they went down into kent and found good faithful jane parsons, now happily married to the very night-guard who had befriended cecile and maurice when they were sent flying from aunt lydia to london. even aunt lydia, as her mother's sister, did repentant lovedy find out; and, seeing her now reduced to absolute poverty, she helped her as best she could. nothing could make lydia purcell really grateful; but even she was a little softened by lovedy's beauty and bewitching ways. she even kissed cecile when she bade her good-by, and cecile, in consequence, could think of her without fear in her distant home.
yes, cecile's ultimate destination was france. in that pretty farmhouse on the borders of the landes, she and maurice grew up as happy and blessed as children could be. no longer orphans—for had they not a mother in old mme. malet, a sister in lovedy, while joe must always remain as the dearest of dear brothers? were you to ask cecile, she would tell you she had just one dream still unfulfilled. she hopes some day to welcome mammie moseley to her happy home in france. the last thing that good woman said to the child, as she clung with arms tightly folded round her neck, was this:
"the guide jesus was most wonderful kind to you, cecile, my lamb! he took you safely a fearsome and perilous journey. you'll let him guide you still all the rest of the way?"
"all the rest of the way," answered cecile in a low and solemn voice. "oh, mammie moseley i could not live without him."
just two things more ... anton is dead. miss smith has ever remained a faithful friend to cecile; and cecile writes to her once a year.
