"Aye, like enough 'twas a slip of your tongue. But you said,
'Mother'; you said it without the 'step' added on. You don't know
--not that it matters now--but you won't never know how that
'stepmother' hardened my heart against you and Maurice, child."

"'Twas our father," said Cecile; "he couldn't forget our own mother,
and he asked us not to say 'Mother,' and me and Maurice, we could
think of no other way. It wasn't that we--that I--didn't love."

"Aye, child, you're a tender little thing; I'm not blaming you, and
maybe I couldn't have borne the word from your lips, for I didn't
love you, Cecile--neither you nor Maurice--I had none of the mother
about me for either of you little kids. Aye, you were right enough;
your father, Maurice D'Albert, never forgot his Rosalie, as he called
her. I always thought as Frenchmen were fickle, but he worn't not
fickle enough for me. Well, Cecile, I'm no way sleepy, and I've a
deal to say, and no one but you to say it to; I'm more strong now
than I have been for the day, so I'd better say my say while I have
any strength left. You build up the fire, and then come back to me,
child. Build it up big, for I'm not going to bed to-night."




CHAPTER II.

A SOLEMN PROMISE.


When Cecile had built up the fire, she made a cup of tea and brought