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Meade, L. T., 1854-1914

"The Children's Pilgrimage"


He felt under the pillow, he felt in the little frock. Ah! good and
clever Miss Smith! so thoroughly, so well had she done her work, that
no touch of hard metal came to Anton's fingers, no suspicion of the
money so close to him entered his head.
Having heard at Warren's Grove of a purse, it never occurred to him
to expect money in any other way. No trace of that Russia-leather
purse was to be found about Cecile. After nearly an hour spent in
prowling about, he had to leave the children's room discomfited;
discomfited truly, and also not wholly unpunished. For Toby, who had
been a good deal satisfied with rolls and morsels of butter, in the
feast made earlier in the day by Pericard, had taken so sparingly of
the soup that he was very slightly drugged, and Anton's movements,
becoming less cautious as he perceived how heavy was the sleep over
the children, at last managed to wake the dog. What instinct was over
Toby I know not. But he hated Anton. He now followed him unperceived
from the room, and, just as he got into the passage outside, managed
to insert his strong teeth deep into his leg. The pain was sharp and
terrible, and the thief dared not scream. He hit Toby a blow, but not
a very hard one, for the dog was exactly behind him. Toby held on for
a moment or two, ascertained that the wound was both deep and
painful, then retreated to take up his post by Cecile's pillow. Nor
did the faithful creature close his eyes again that night.


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