CHAPTER VI.
THE VISIT.
If my readers have been only half as much interested in Mrs. Wilmot's account of Cecille as I was, they will not have thought it too long. Before it was concluded, I had determined to become better acquainted with Cecille L'Estrange; and when, immediately after an early, one o'clock dinner, Clara and Grace put on their bonnets, knowing that they were going to see her, I asked to walk with them. They were very glad to have my company, but asked if I would go with them through the wood and across the fields—there were only two fences to climb, and if they went by the road, they were afraid Cecille would have set out before they could get to her house. This suited me well; for I had always rather go through a wood and across fields, than by a dusty road—so we were soon on the way. We walked on very quickly, not even stopping to pick the late fall flowers which we saw, though we marked their places that we might get them as we came back. The second field we crossed opened upon Mrs. Daly's orchard, from which we passed through the yard, and would have entered the house by the back door, had not Mrs. Daly met us and begged that we would go around to the front. "Not that I care about it, ma'am," said she to me in an apologizing manner: "front or back, it's all the same to me; but the good old lady in there"—pointing to the room near which we stood—"she's a clever body, but she has some queer notions. I guess she's been a lady born, and she don't like somehow that people should see them work—so she wants everybody to go to the front door, and in the parlor, where they only do some of their light works; and as I said before, it's all the same to widow Daly—so if you please, ma'am, I'll show you the way round."
While Mrs. Daly was speaking, I had caught a view through the half open shutter of the inside of the room to which she had pointed. An old lady, dressed in a silk wrapper which even at that distance looked old and faded, was seated in one of Mrs. Daly's high-backed, straw-bottomed chairs, near a small table on which was spread a clean white towel. A plate with a slice of bread was before her. At the fireplace stood a young girl stooping over a furnace of coal, on which was a small pan. Though she had changed her dress and covered her head with a handkerchief, probably to keep her hair free from ashes or soot, I had no difficulty in recognising Cecille. She held a spoon in her hand, and occasionally used it to turn or stir what was in the pan. I was so much interested in observing her movements, that I said to Mrs. Daly that I would let Clara and Grace go to the front door, and speak to Cecille, and I would await them where I then was. The children and Mrs. Daly had just left me, when I saw Cecille's glowing and pleased face turned towards her grandmother, while by the motion of her hand she seemed to ask for her plate. The old lady held it out, the pan was taken from the fire, and what seemed to me an omelet was laid on the plate. This, you know, is made of eggs, and it requires some skill in cookery to make it well. I judged from Cecille's looks that she thought this was well done. She was evidently more pleased with her success, more vain of her powers, in cooking, than in painting and embroidery. From her grandmother's pleased countenance, I was sure she was praising the omelet and its maker. After a while, however, the old lady looked a little sad. She kissed Cecille's cheek as she was bending over her, and taking the handkerchief from her head, smoothed the hair back from her forehead. Then she offered Cecille her plate, and seemed to urge her to take some of her own cookery; but, with a smile and shake of the head, Cecille turned to a cupboard, and taking from it a bowl of milk and another plate of bread, placed them on the table. She was just seating herself by her grandmother, when Mrs. Daly opened the door. After some words from her, Cecille rose and left the room, and but a few minutes passed before I was again joined by my young companions. We walked more leisurely home again, and did not now leave the flowers unplucked.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BLIND MAN.
As we were sitting, one afternoon during the next week, near the parlor windows, the girls and myself at work while Mrs. Wilmot read out for us, we heard the gate open, and looking up, saw an old man, whose clothes seemed to have been long worn, and whose white hairs were covered with a ragged straw hat, approaching the house. A little boy was with him, and as he came near, we saw that this little boy was leading him, by which we knew that the poor old man was blind. He seated himself on the step of the house, and taking off a bag, which was slung over his shoulder, drew a violin from it, and began to play. The children wished to go out and speak with him, and as Mrs. Wilmot did not object, they were soon gathered round him. I followed them. They listened for a while without speaking. Then Lucy Wilmot, the youngest of the group, pressed up to his side, saying, "Cannot you see at all, sir?"
"No, my little miss. But though I cannot see you, I can hear your pleasant voice, and I know that you are sorry for the old blind man, and feel kindly to him, and I am sure that when you know he has had nothing to eat to-day, though he has come a great way, you will give him something."