Good-by,
mother.'
"Yes, Cecile, that was the note, and what it said was true. My
Lovedy was gone. She had disappeared, and so had her Aunt Fanny, and
never, never from that hour have I heard one single word of Lovedy."
Mrs. D'Albert paused here. The telling of her tale seemed to have
changed her. In talking of her child the hard look had left her face,
an expression almost beautiful in its love and longing filled her
poor dim eyes, and when Cecile, in her sympathy, slipped her little
hand into hers, she did not resist the pressure.
"Yes, Cecile," she continued, turning to the little girl, "I lost
Lovedy--more surely than if she was dead, was she torn from me. I
never got one clew to her. Yer father did all he could for me; he was
more than kind, he did pity me, and he made every inquiry for my girl
and advertised for her, but her aunt had taken her out of England,
and I never heard--I never heard of my Lovedy from the day I married
yer father, Cecile. It changed me, child; it changed me most bitter.
I grew hard, and I never could love you nor Maurice, no, nor even yer
good father, very much after that. I always looked upon you three as
the people who took by bonnie girl away. It was unfair of me. Now, as
I'm dying, I'll allow as it was real unfair, but the pain and hunger
in my heart was most awful to bear. You'll forgive me for never
loving you, when you think of all the pain I had to bear, Cecile."
"Yes, poor stepmother," answered the little girl, stooping down and
kissing her hand.
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