This old-world
saying was specially proved in the cases of Maurice and Cecile. How
two creatures so young, so inexperienced, should ever find themselves
in a foreign land, must have remained a mystery to those who did not
hold this faith.
Cecile was eight, Maurice six years old; the dog, of no age in
particular, but with a vast amount of canine wisdom, was with them.
He had walked with them all the way from London to Dover. He had
slept curled up close to them in two or three barns, where they had
passed nights free of expense. He had jumped up behind them into
loaded carts or wagons when they were fortunate enough to get a lift,
and when they reached Dover he had wandered with them through the
streets, and had found himself by their sides on the quay, and in
some way also on board the boat which was to convey them to France.
And now they were in France, two miles outside Calais, on a wild,
flat, and desolate plain. But neither this fact nor the weather, for
it was a raw and bitter winter's day, made any difference, at least
at first, to Cecile. All lesser feelings, all minor discomforts, were
swallowed up in the joyful knowledge that they were in France, in the
land where Lovedy was sure to be, in their beloved father's country.
They were in France, their own _belle_ France! Little she knew
or recked, poor child! how far was this present desolate France from
her babyhood's sunny home. Having conquered the grand difficulty of
getting there, she saw no other difficulties in her path just now.
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