where we live. She looked at us as we came in at this door, and any
moment she may come here. Oh, Maurice! if she comes here, and if she
steals my purse of gold, I _shall die_."

Here Cecile's fortitude gave way. Still seated on the floor, she
covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

Her tears, however, did what her words could not do. Maurice's
tender baby heart held out no longer. He stood up and said valiantly:

"Cecile, Cecile, we'll leave our night's lodging. We'll go away.
Only who's to tell Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley?"

"I'll write," said Cecile; "I can hold my pen pretty well now. I'll
write a little note."

She went to the table where she knew some seldom-used note paper was
kept, selected a gay pink sheet, and dipping her pen in the ink, and
after a great deal of difficulty, and some blots, which, indeed, were
made larger by tear-drops, accomplished a few forlorn little words.
This was the little note, ill-spelt and ill-written, which greeted
Moseley on his return home that evening:

"Dear Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley: The little children you gave
so many nights' lodgings to have gone away. We have gone south, but
there is no use looking for us, for Cecile must do what she promised.
Mammie Moseley, if Cecile can't do what she promised she will die.
The little children would not have gone now when mammie was away, but
a great, great danger came, and we had not a moment to stay. Some
day, Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley, me and Maurice will come back