The Children's Pilgrimage by L. T. Meade
page 157 of 317 (49%)
page 157 of 317 (49%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
which Moseley had given her on Christmas Day. The precious Russia-
leather purse was restored to its old hiding place in the bosom of her frock. Then, giving a mournful glance round the little chamber which she was about to quit, she returned to Maurice. "Don't take off your hat, Maurice, darling; we have got to go." "To go!" said Maurice, opening his brown eyes wide. "Are we to leave our nice night's lodging? Is that what you mean? No, Cecile," said the little boy, seating himself firmly on the floor. "I don't intend to go. Mammie Moseley said I was to be here when she came back, and I mean to be here." "But, oh! Maurice, Maurice, I must go south, Will you let me go alone? Can you live without me, Maurice, darling?" "No, Cecile, you shall not go. You shall stay here too. We need neither of us go south. It's much, much nicer here." Cecile considered a moment. This opposition from Maurice puzzled her. She had counted on many obstacles, but this came from an unlooked-for quarter. Moments were precious. Each instant she expected to hear the step she dreaded on the attic stairs. Without Maurice, however, she could not stir. Resolving to fight for her purse of gold, with even life itself if necessary, she sat down by her little brother on the floor. "Maurice," she said--as she spoke, she felt herself growing quite old and grave--"Maurice, you know that ever since our stepmother |
|