I shook my head.
"No?—Do you not know that this is my pay-day? Grandmamma will soon have her flannel, if you help me as you promised, and she wants it in this weather."
I congratulated Cecille on her coming pleasure, promised her my help, and we parted.
I spent my morning very agreeably with Madame L'Estrange, yet I listened to Mrs. Daly's clock, which stood on the mantelpiece, and watched its hands with as much impatience as if I had been weary and longed to get away. The truth was, I was impatient for Cecille's coming, which I had determined to await, that I might have the pleasure of seeing her happy looks when her wishes were accomplished and the money was actually in her hands. Did you ever observe how slowly the hands of a clock appear to move when they are watched? I thought this morning that the hour from ten to eleven was the longest I had ever passed. It did pass, however, and at length I saw the hour hand at eleven and the minute hand at twelve. Now I began to watch the windows, for I thought that Cecille must soon be in sight. But here again I was disappointed, and both her grandmother and myself had more than once expressed our surprise at her delay, before she appeared;—and then I could scarcely believe it was the same Cecille whom I had seen in the morning, bounding along as if her feet scarce touched the earth. She walked now slowly and pensively, and I even fancied once that I saw her wipe her eyes.
As she came near the house, however, she looked up and her step became more brisk. She entered the room where we sat. I looked at her anxiously, but she turned her face away as if she could not bear to meet my eye, and walking straight up to her grandmother, put a parcel into her hand and stood still by her side.
"You do not speak to your friend, my dear," said Madame L'Estrange without opening the parcel, about which she seemed to feel no curiosity.
Cecille put her hand in mine without speaking—then looked again at her grandmother, who had by this time slowly unfolded the packet. She looked at its contents, and then lifting up her face with a smile to Cecille, said, "Ah, little pilferer! where is the rest?"
In a choked voice Cecille answered, "There is no more."
"There is no more!" exclaimed Madame L'Estrange; "why how is this, Cecille? This is but half of what you have always received for a month's teaching."
Cecille tried to answer, but in vain. Her throat swelled, her lip quivered, and throwing herself upon her grandmother's bosom, she burst into tears. Madame L'Estrange was, as you may easily suppose, greatly distressed. She stroked Cecille's hair, pressed her lips to her head, calling her at the same time by every endearing name which the French language furnishes, and repeatedly asking, "What is the matter? Has any one been harsh to my child? Cecille, what have they done to you, my darling?"