"
"No, I don't know nothink about it, Cecile," said Mrs. Moseley in
her cheerful voice. "What we knows, my man and me, is, that you two
little mites has got to stay yere until we finds some good orphan
school to send you to, and you has no call to trouble about payment,
deary, for we're only too glad and thankful to put any children into
our dead child's place and into Susie's place."
"But we can't stay," said Cecile; "we can't stay, though we'd like
to ever so. I'm only a little girl. But there's a great deal put on
me--a great, great care. I don't mind it now, 'cause of Jesus. But I
mustn't neglect it, must I?"
"No, darling: Only tell Mammie Moseley what it is."
"Oh! May I call you that?"
"Yes; for sure, love. Now tell me what's yer care, Cecile, honey."
"I can't, Mammie, I can't, though I'd like to. I had to tell Jane
Parsons. I had to tell her, and she was faithful. But I think I'd
better not tell even you again. Only 'tis a great care, and it means
a long journey, and going south. It means all that much for me, and
Maurice, and Toby."
"Going south? You mean to Devonshire, I suppose, child?"
"I don't know. Is there a place called Devonshire there, ma'am? But
we has to go to France--away down to the south of France--to the
Pyrenees."
"Law, child! Why, you don't never mean as you're going to cross the
seas?"
"Is that the way to France, Mammie Moseley? Oh! Do you _really_
know the way?"
"There's no other way that I ever hear tell on, Cecile.
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