"Yes, Cecile," she continued, turning to the little girl, "I lost
Lovedy--more surely than if she was dead, was she torn from me. I
never got one clew to her. Yer father did all he could for me; he was
more than kind, he did pity me, and he made every inquiry for my girl
and advertised for her, but her aunt had taken her out of England,
and I never heard--I never heard of my Lovedy from the day I married
yer father, Cecile. It changed me, child; it changed me most bitter.
I grew hard, and I never could love you nor Maurice, no, nor even yer
good father, very much after that. I always looked upon you three as
the people who took by bonnie girl away. It was unfair of me. Now, as
I'm dying, I'll allow as it was real unfair, but the pain and hunger
in my heart was most awful to bear. You'll forgive me for never
loving you, when you think of all the pain I had to bear, Cecile."

"Yes, poor stepmother," answered the little girl, stooping down and
kissing her hand. "And, oh!" continued Cecile with fervor, "I wish--I
wish I could find Lovedy for you again."

"Why, Cecile, that's just what you've got to do," said her
stepmother; "you've got to look for Lovedy: you're a very young
girl; you're only a child; but you've got to go on looking, _always
--always_ until you find her. The finding of my Lovedy is to be yer
life-work, Cecile. I don't want you to begin now, not till you're
older and have got more sense; but you has to keep it firm in yer
head, and in two or three years' time you must begin. You must go on
looking until you find my Lovedy. That is what you have to promise me
before I die."

"Yes, stepmother."