"You're a good, tender-hearted child, Cecile," she said to the little creature, who was watching her every movement with a kind of trembling eagerness. Cecile's sensitive face flushed at the words of praise, and she came very close to the sofa. "Yes, you're a good child," repeated Mrs. D'Albert; "you're yer father's own child, and he was very good, though he was a foreigner. For myself I don't much care for good people, but when you're dying, I don't deny as they're something of a comfort. Good people are to be depended on, and you're good, Cecile." But there was only one sentence in these words which Cecile took in. "When you're dying," she repeated, and every vestige of color forsook her lips. "Yes, my dear, when you're dying. I'm dying, Cecile; that was what the doctor meant when he said I'd be quite well; he meant as I'd lie straight and stiff, and have my eyes shut, and be put in a long box and be buried, that was what he meant, Cecile. But look here now, you're not to cry about it--not at present, I mean; you may as much as you like by and by, but not now. I'm not crying, and 'tis a deal worse for me; but there ain't no time for tears, they only weaken and do no good, and I has a deal to say. Don't you dare shed a tear now, Cecile; I can't a-bear the sight of tears; you may cry by and by, but now you has got to listen to me." "I won't cry," said Cecile; she made a great effort set her lips firm, and looked hard at her stepmother. "That's a good, brave girl. Now I can talk in comfort. I want to talk all I can to you to-night, my dear, for to-morrow I may have the weakness back again, and besides your Aunt Lydia will be here!" "Who's my Aunt Lydia?" asked Cecile. "She ain't rightly your aunt at all, she's my sister; but she's the person as will have to take care of you and Maurice after I'm dead." "Oh!" said Cecile; her little face fell, and a bright color came into her cheeks. "She's my own sister," continued Mrs. D'Albert, "but I don't like her much. She's a good woman enough; not up to yer father's standard, but still fair enough. But she's hard--she is hard ef you like. I don't profess to have any violent love for you two little tots, but I'd sooner not leave you to the care o' Aunt Lydia ef I could help it." "Don't leave us to her care; do find some one kind--some one as 'ull be kind to me, and Maurice, and Toby--do help it, stepmother," said Cecile. "I _can't_ help it, child; and there's no use bothering a dying woman who's short of breath. You and Maurice have got to go to my sister, your Aunt Lydia, and ef you'll take a word of advice by and by, Cecile, from one as 'ull be in her grave, you'll not step-aunt her--she's short of temper, Aunt Lydia is. Yes," continued the sick woman, speaking fast, and gasping for breath a little, "you have got to go to my sister Lydia. I have sent her word, and she'll come to-morrow--but--never mind that now. I ha' something else I must say to you, Cecile." "Yes, stepmother."