Just
then a voice, singing the same sweet refrain, came along the passage.
As it got near, the music ceased, the door softly opened, and a young
woman with golden hair and the brightest of bright faces came softly
in. Seeing Cecile with her eyes open, she went gladly up to the bed,
and, bending over her, said in a full but gentle voice:
"Ah! dear English little one, how glad I am that you are better!"
"Yes, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, in her feeble tone. Then she
added, looking up wistfully: "Please, how soon may I see Jesus?"
At these words the pleased expression vanished from the young
woman's face. She looked at Cecile in pity and alarm, and saying
softly to herself, "Ah! she isn't better, then," turned away with a
sigh; but Cecile lifted a feeble hand to detain her.
"Please, I'm much better. I'm quite well," she said. "This is
heaven, isn't it?"
"No," answered the young woman. She was less alarmed now, and she
turned and gazed hard at the child. "No," she said, "we thought you
were going to heaven. But I do believe you really are better. No, my
dear little girl! this is very different from heaven. This is only a
French farm; a farm in the Landes--pretty enough! but still very
different from heaven. You have been very ill, and have been lying on
that little bed for the last fortnight, and we did fear that you'd
die. We brought you here, and, thanks to my good mother-in-law and
our doctor, we have, I do trust, brought you through, and now you
must sleep and not talk any more.
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