The Children's Pilgrimage

on a doorstep. The eldest might have been ten, the youngest eight. The eldest was a girl, the youngest a boy. Drawn

old-fashioned, old-world court, back of Bloomsbury. They were a foreign-looking little pair-not in their dress, which was truly English in its clumsiness and want of picturesque coloring-but their faces were foreign. The contour was peculiar, the setting of the two pairs of eyes-un-Saxon. They sat very close together, a grave little couple. Presently the gir

raised his eyes, lo

be soon

ice; I think it m

cile, and it's g

ill soon wake now, and then you ca

laid his head once more on her should

opened, and a gentleman in a plain black coat came out. He was a doctor and a young man. His s

hildren, looking at the

tin?" asked Cecile, raising her

her to write a letter which she wants me to post. Yes, she is very i

nging to his feet; "stepmother is awake, and

his little face. He ran along the passage holding out his hand to his sister, but Cecile dr

oing to be ill very

expect her illness w

'll be quite w

rds and speaking queerly. He looked as if he wanted to say more, bu

ly dressed. The woman's cheeks were crimson, and her large eyes, which were wide open, were very bright. Little Maurice had already found a seat and a hunch of bread and butter, and was enjoying both

er hand in hers, "Dr. Austin say

with almost feverish energy, but she did not speak, and when Maurice called out from the fir

him with milk and bread and butter, she took his hand to lead him to bed. There were only t

hared together, Cecile helped her little brother

yes had followed her every movement, "you must lie down by

ome to bed t

ve to see to stepmother. Our stepmo

, and without comprehending; then he shut his e

the sofa with a confident step. Though her stepmother was so ill now, she would be quite well to-morrow, so the doctor

I bring in your night-dress and air it by the fire, and

woman. "I'm not going to stir

e quite well to-morrow," said the

well to-morrow?" aske

aid, 'Yes,'-at least he said 'Perhaps,' bu

meaning what you were meaning. Well, never mind;

cile, hesitatin

without the 'step' added on. You don't know-not that it matters now-but you won't

er, and he asked us not to say 'Mother,' and me and Maurice, we c

, you were right enough; your father, Maurice D'Albert, never forgot his Rosalie, as he called her. I always thought as Frenchmen were fickle, but he worn't not fickle enough for me. Well, Cecile, I'm no way sleepy, and I've a deal to say, and