"Now, Cecile," said Miss Smith, "I feel conceited, for I don't believe anyone will ever think of looking there for your money; and I am to keep the Russia-leather purse and the forty pounds and they are for an English girl called Lovedy. How shall I know her when she comes, or will you only return to fetch them yourself, little one?"
"I should like that best," said Cecile; "but I might die, or be very ill, and then Lovedy would never get her money. Miss Smith, perhaps you will write something on a little bit of paper, and then give the paper to me, and if I cannot come myself I will give the paper to Lovedy, or somebody else; when you see your own bit of paper again, then you will know that you are to give Lovedy's purse to the person who gives you the paper."
"That is not a bad plan," said Miss Smith; "at least," she added, "I can think of no better. I will write something then for you, Cecile."
She forthwith provided herself with a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote as follows:
"Received this day of Cecile D'Albert the sum of Forty Pounds, in four Bank of England notes, inclosed in a Russia-leather purse. Will return purse and money to the bearer of this paper whoever that person may be.
"So help me God. HANNAH SMITH."
As Hannah Smith added those words, "So help me God," a deep flush came to her pale face and the thin hand that held the pen trembled.
"There, Cecile," she said, "you must keep that little piece of paper even more carefully than the money, for anyone who secured this might claim the money. I will sew it into your frock myself." Which the good soul did; and then the old maid blessed the child, and she went away.
Long after Cecile had left her, Miss Smith sat on by the table—that purse untouched by her side.
"A sudden and sore temptation," she said, at last, aloud. "But it did not last. So help me God, it will never return—SO HELP ME GOD."