are no relations to me, until I get a letter from France. If a check
comes with the letter, well and good; if not, out they go--out they
go that minute, sure as my name is Lydia Purcell. What call has a
Frenchman's children on me?"

"Where are they to go?" asked Mr. Preston.

"To the workhouse, of course. What is the workhouse for but to
receive such beggar brats?"

"Well, I am sorry for them," said the lawyer, now also rising and
buttoning on his coat. "They don't look fit for such a life; they
look above so dismal a fate. Poor little ones! That boy is very
handsome, and the girl, her eyes makes you think of a startled fawn.
Well, good-day, Mrs. Purcell. I trust there will be good news from
France."

Just on the boundary of the farm Mr. Preston met Maurice. Some
impulse, for he was not a softhearted man himself, made him stop,
call the pretty boy to his side, and give him half a sovereign.

"Ask your sister to take care of it for you, and keep it, both of
you, my poor babes, for a rainy day."




CHAPTER XI.

A MONTH TO PREPARE.