The tall lad sighed.

"_La Belle France_!" he exclaimed with sudden fervor. He caught
Cecile's little hand and wrung it, then he hurried away.

After this he had once or twice again spoken to the children, but
they had never got beyond the outside limits of friendship. And now
behold! on this desolate sandy plain outside the far-famed town of
Calais, the poor little French wanderers, who knew not a single word
of their native language, and the tall boy with the fiddle met. It
was surprising how that slight acquaintance in London ripened on the
instant into violent friendship.

Maurice, in his ecstasy at seeing a face he knew actually kissed the
tall boy, and Cecile's eyes over-flowed with happy tears.

"Oh! do sit down near us. Do help us, we're such a perplexed little
boy and girl," she said; "do talk to us for a little bit, kind tall
English boy."

"You call me Jography, young un. It wor through jography we found
each other out. And I ain't an English boy, no more nor you are an
English girl; I'm French, I am. There, you call me Jography, young
uns; 'tis uncommon, and 'ull fit fine."

"Oh! then Jography is a person," said Cecile. "How glad I am! I was
just longing that he might be. And I'm so glad you're French; and is
Jography your real, real name?"

"Ain't you fit to kill a body with laughing?" said the tall lad,