Where was France? Her father said it lay south. Where was south? The
cabby, when she asked him, said he could not tell her, for he did not
know jography. What was jography? Was it a thing, or a person?
Whoever or whatever it was, it knew the way to France, to that haven
of her desire. Cecile must then endeavor to find jography. But where,
and how? A church door stood open. Some straggling worshipers came
out. The children stood to watch them. The door still remained open.
Taking Maurice's hand, Cecile crept into the silent church; it felt
warm and sheltered. Toby slipped under one of the pews; Cecile and
Maurice sat side by side on a hassock. Maurice was still bright and
not at all sleepy, and Cecile began to think it a good opportunity to
tell him a little of the life he had before him.
"Maurice," she said, "do you mind having to walk a long way, having
to walk hundreds and hundreds of miles, and do you mind having to
keep on walking for days and weeks?"
"Yes," said Maurice. "I don't like walking; I'd rather go back to
our old court."
"But you'd like to pick flowers--pretty, pretty flowers growing by
the waysides; and there'd be lots of sunshine all day long. It would
not be like England, it would be down South."
"Is it warm down South?" asked Maurice.
"Why, Maurice, of course, that was where our father lived and where
our own, own mother died; 'tis lovely, lovely down South."
"Then I don't mind walking, Cecile; let's set of South at once.
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