had been good to Mrs. D'Albert, and had written to her sister to come
to her, paid the children a hasty visit. He noticed at once Cecile's
pale face and languid eyes.

"This child is not well," he said to Lydia Purcell. "What is wrong,
my little one?" he added, drawing the child forward tenderly to sit
on his knee.

"Please, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, "'tis only as father did
say as I was a very dependable little girl. I think being dependable
makes you feel a bit old--don't it, doctor?"

"I have no doubt it does," answered the doctor, laughing. And he
went away relieved about the funny, old-fashioned little foreign
girl, and from that moment Cecile passed out of his busy and useful
life.

The next day the children, Toby, and Aunt Lydia went down to the
farm in Kent. Neither Cecile, Maurice, nor their town-bred dog had
ever seen the country, to remember it before, and it is not too much
to say that all three went nearly wild with delight. Not even Aunt
Lydia's sternness could quench the children's mirth when they got
away into the fields, or scrambled over stiles into the woods.
Beautiful Kent was then rich in its autumn tints. The children and
dog lived out from morning to night. Provided they did not trouble
her, Lydia Purcell was quite indifferent as to how the little
creatures committed to her care passed their time. At Cecile's
request she would give her some broken provisions in a basket, and
then never see or think of the little trio again until, footsore and
weary after their day of wandering, they crept into their attic