All that dreadful cold of Normandy seemed like a
forgotten dream. It was almost impossible to believe that the limbs
that ached under that freezing atmosphere could be the same that now
felt the sun almost oppressive.
Little Maurice had the desire of his heart, for the sun shone all
day long. He could pick flowers and smell sweet country air, and the
boy born under these sunny skies revived like a tropical plant
beneath their influence. It was a month now since the children had
left Paris. They had remained for a day or so in Orleans, and then
had wandered on, going farther and farther south, until at last they
had passed the great seaport town of Bordeaux, and found themselves
in the monotonous forests of the Landes. The scenery was not pretty
here. The ground was flat, and for miles and miles around them swept
an interminable growth of fir trees, each tall and straight, many
having their bark pierced, and with small tin vessels fastened round
their trunks to catch the turpentine which oozed slowly out. These
trees, planted in long straight rows, and occupying whole leagues of
country, would have been wearisome to eyes less occupied, to hearts
less full, than those that looked out of the faces and beat in the
breasts of the children who on foot still pursued their march. For in
this forest Cecile's heart had revived. Before she reached Bordeaux
she often had felt her hope fading. She had believed that her desire
could never be accomplished, for, inquire as they would, they could
get in none of the towns or villages they passed through any tidings
of Lovedy.
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