very small change. This was rendered easy, for the man at the coffee-stall
had given her mostly sixpences and pence.

The sun was now shining brilliantly. The day was frosty and bright;
there would be a bitter night further on, but just now the air was
fresh and invigorating. The children and dog, cheered and warmed by
their breakfast, stepped along gayly, and Cecile began to think that
going on pilgrimage was not such a bad thing.

Having no one to consult, Cecile was yet making up her plans with
rare wisdom for so young a child. They would walk back to the part of
London that they knew. From there they would make their inquiries,
those inquiries which were to land them in France. In their old
quarters, perhaps in their old home, they might get lodgings.

Walking straight on, Cecile asked every policeman she met to direct
them to Bloomsbury, but whether the police were careless and told
them wrong, whether the distance was too great, or whether Cecile's
little head was too young to remember, noon came, and noon passed,
and they were still far, far away from the court where their father
and stepmother had died.




CHAPTER II.

"A NIGHT'S LODGINGS."