understand; for it would have been completely impossible for Cecile
herself, under any circumstances, to treat her father as Lovedy had
treated her poor mother.

"I could never, never go away like that, and let father's heart
break," thought Cecile, her lips growing white at the bare idea
of such suffering for one she loved. But then it came to her with
a sense of relief that perhaps Lovedy's Aunt Fanny was the guilty
person, and that she herself was quite innocent; her aunt, who
was powerful and strong, had been unkind, and had not allowed her
to write. When this thought came to Cecile, she gave a sigh of
relief. It would be so much nicer to find Lovedy, if she was not
so hard-hearted as her story seemed to show.

All that night Mrs. D'Albert lay with her eyes closed, but not
asleep. When the first dawn came in through the shutters she turned
to the watching child:

"Cecile," she said, "the day has broke, and this is the day the
doctor says as perhaps I'll die."

"Shall I open the shutters wide?" asked Cecile.

"No, my dear. No, no! The light 'ull come quite fast enough. Cecile,
ain't it a queer thing to be going to die, and not to be a bit ready
to die?"

"Ain't you ready, stepmother?" asked the little girl.

"No, child, how could I be ready? I never had no time. I never had a