"That grate would not burn a fire even if you were to light it," she
said partly in excuse.

"But Maurice is so cold. I think he is ill from cold, and you don't
like us to stay in the kitchen," pleaded the anxious little sister.

"No, I certainly can't have children pottering about in my way
here," replied Lydia Purcell. "And do you know, Cecile--for if you
don't 'tis right you should--all that money I was promised for the
care of you and your brother, and the odious dog, has never come. You
have been living on me for near three months now, and not a blessed
sixpence have I had for my trouble. That uncle, or cousin, or whoever
he is, in France, has not taken the slightest notice of my letter.
There's a nice state of things--and you having the impudence to ask
for a fire up in yer very bedroom. What next, I wonder?"

"I can't think why the money hasn't come," answered Cecile,
puckering her brows; "that money from France always did come to the
day--always exactly to the day, it never failed. Father used to say
our cousin who had bought his vineyard and farm was reliable. I can't
think, indeed, why the money is not here long ago, Mrs. Purcell."

"Well, it han't come, child, and I have got Mr. Preston to write
about it, and if he don't have an answer soon and a check into the
bargain, out you and Maurice will have to go. I'm a poor woman
myself, and I can't afford to keep no beggar brats. That'll be worse
nor a fire in your bedroom, I guess, Cecile."

"If the money don't come, where'll you send us, Mrs. Purcell,