All that long and pathetic interview which Cecile and her dying
stepmother had held together had been told to Jography. Even the
precious leather purse had been put into his hands, and he had been
allowed to open it and count its contents.

For a moment his deep-black eyes had glittered greedily as he felt
the gold running through his fingers, then they softened. He returned
the money to the purse, and gave it back, almost reverently, to Cecile.

"Little Missie," he said, looking strangely at her and speaking in a
sad tone, "you ha' showed me yer gold. Do you know what yer gold 'ud
mean to me?"

"No," answered Cecile, returning his glance in fullest confidence.

"Why, Missie, I'm a poor starved lad. I ha' been treated werry
shameful. I ha' got blows, and kicks, and rough food, and little of
that same. But there's worse nor that; I han't no one to speak a kind
word to me. Not one, not _one_ kind word for seven years have I
heard, and before that I had a mother and a brother. I wor a little
lad, and I used to sleep o' nights with my mother, and she used to
take me in her arms and pet me and love me, and my big brother wor as
good to me as brother could be. Missie, my heart has _starved_
for my mother and my brother, and ef I liked I could take that purse
full o' gold and let you little children fare as best you might, and
I could jump inter the next train and be wid my mother and brother
back in the Pyrenees in a werry short time."

"No, Joe Barnes, you couldn't do that," answered Cecile, the finest