"Cecile D'Albert," he said passionately, "I'd rayther be cut in
little bits nor touch that purse o' gold. You're quite, quite right,
little Missie, it 'ud break my heart."

"Of course," said Cecile. "And now, Joe, shall we walk on, for 'tis
most bitter cold under this sand hill; and see! poor Maurice is
nearly asleep."

That same evening, when, rather earlier than usual, the children and
dog had taken refuge in a very tiny little wayside house, where a
woman was giving them room to rest in almost for nothing, Joe, coming
close to Cecile, said:

"Wot wor that as you said that Jesus the Guide sent me to you,
Missie. I don't know nothink about Jesus the Guide."

"Oh, Joe! what an unhappy boy you must be! I was _so_ unhappy
until I learned about Him, and I was a long, long time learning. Yes,
He did send you. He could not come His own self, so He sent you."

"But, indeed, Missie, no; I just runned away, and I got to France,
and I heard you two funny little mites talking o' jography under the
sand hill. It worn't likely as a feller 'ud forget the way you did
speak o' jography. No one sent me, Missie."

"But that's a way Jesus has, Jography. He does not always tell
people when He is sending them. But He does send them all the same.
It's very simple, dear Jography, but I was a long, long time learning
about it. For a long time I thought Jesus came His own self, and