"Has old Mrs. Bell gone into the Celestial City?" "No, no, my dear, into heaven," replied the cook; "the blessed old lady has gone into heaven, dear." Cecile sighed. "She always _spoke_ about going to the Celestial City and the New Jerusalem," she said. Now the dairymaid, who happened to be a Methodist, stood near. She now came forward. "Ain't heaven and the New Jerusalem jest one and the same, Jane Parsons? What's the use of puzzling a child like that? Yes, Miss Cecile, honey, the old lady is in heaven, or the New Jerusalem, or the Celestial City, which you like to call it. They all means the same." Cecile thanked the dairymaid and walked away. She was a little comforted by this explanation, and a tiny gleam of light was entering her mind. Still she was very far from the truth. The halcyon days between Mrs. Bell's death and her funeral passed all too quickly. Then came the day of the funeral, and the next morning the iron rule of Lydia Purcell began again. Whatever few words she said to cook, dairymaid, and message-boy, they once more obeyed her and showed her respect. And there was no more cream for Maurice, nor special dainties for the little picnic basket. That same day, too, Lydia and Mr. Preston had a long conversation. "It is settled then," said the lawyer, "and you stay on here and manage everything on the old footing until we hear from Mr. Bell. I have telegraphed, but he is not likely to reply except by letter. You may reckon yourself safe not to be disturbed out of your present snug quarters for the winter." "And hard I must save," said Lydia; "I have but beggary to face when I'm turned out." "Some of your money will be secured," replied the lawyer. "I can promise you at least three hundred." "What is three hundred to live on?" "You can save again. You are still a young woman." "I am forty-five," replied Lydia Purcell. "At forty-five you don't feel as you do at twenty-five. Yes, I can save; but somehow there's no spirit in it." "I am sorry for you," replied the lawyer. Then he added, "And the children--the children can remain here as long as you stay." But at the mention of the children, the momentary expression of softness, which had made Lydia's face almost pleasing, vanished. "Mr. Preston," she said, rising, "I will keep those children, who 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?"