He lay down, curling himself up like a little dog, but tired as he
was he could not sleep--not at first. He was nothing but a baby boy,
but he had quite a retrospect or panorama passing before his eyes as
he lay on the dirty caravan floor. He saw the old court at home; he
saw the pretty farm of Warren's Grove; he saw that tiring day in
London when it seemed to both Cecile and himself that they should
never anywhere get a lodging for the night; then he was back again
with kind, with dear Mrs. Moseley, and she was telling to him and
Cecile those lovely, those charming stories about heaven.
"I always, always said as heaven would suit me better than South,"
sobbed the poor little boy. "I never did want to come South. I wished
Jesus the Guide to take me to heaven. Oh, I do want to go to heaven!"
Over and over he repeated this wish aloud in the darkness, and its
very utterance seemed to soothe him, for after a time he did really
drop asleep.
He had not slept so very long when a hand touched him. The hand was
gentle, the touch firm but quiet.
Maurice awoke without any start and sat up. The Frenchman was
bending over him. He pointed to the open door of the room--to the
open door of the caravan beyond.
"Run--run away," he said. These were the only words of English he
could master.
"Run away," he repeated and now he carried the child to the open
outer door. Maurice understood; his face brightened; first kissing
his deliverer, he then glided from his arms, ran down the steps of
the caravan, and disappeared.
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