satisfied.

For the rest of that night Cecile sat on by the sofa where Mrs.
D'Albert lay. Now that the excitement of telling her tale had passed,
the dreaded weakness had come back to the poor woman. Her voice, so
strong and full of interest when speaking of Lovedy, had sunk to a
mere whisper. She liked, however, to have her little stepdaughter
close to her, and even held her hand in hers. That little hand now
was a link between her and her lost girl, and as such, for the first
time she really loved Cecile.

As for the child herself, she was too excited far to sleep. The
sorrow so loving a heart must have felt at the prospect of her
stepmother's approaching death was not just now realized; she was
absorbed in the thought of the tale she had heard, of the promise she
had made.

Cecile was grave and womanly far beyond her years, and she knew well
that she had taken no light thing on her young shoulders. To shirk
this duty would not be possible to a nature such as hers. No, she
must go through with it; she had registered a vow, and she must
fulfill it. Her little face, always slightly careworn, looked now
almost pathetic under its load of care.

"Yes, poor stepmother," she kept saying to herself, "I will find
Lovedy--I will find Lovedy or die."

Then she tried to imagine the joyful moment when her quest would be
crowned with success, when she would see herself face to face with
the handsome, willful girl, whom she yet must utterly fail to