Publisher's Synopsis
"[...]very sure from his look." "Aye, child, aye; he was very sure, but he was not meaning what you were meaning. Well, never mind; but what was that you called me just now, Cecile?" "I--I----" said Cecile, hesitating and coloring. "Aye, like enough 'twas a slip of your tongue. But you said, 'Mother'; you said it without the 'step' added on. You don't know --not that it matters now--but you won't never know how that 'stepmother' hardened my heart against you and Maurice, child." "'Twas our father," said Cecile; "he couldn't forget our own mother, and he asked us not to say 'Mother, ' and me and Maurice, we could think of no other way. It wasn't that we--that I--didn't love." "Aye, child, you're a tender little thing; I'm not blaming you, and maybe I couldn't have borne the word from your lips, for I didn't love you, Cecile--neither you nor Maurice--I had none of the mother about me for either of you little kids. Aye, you were right enough; your father, Maurice D'Albert, never forgot his Rosalie, as he called her. I always thought as Frenchmen were fickle, but he worn't not fickle enough for me. Well, Cecile, I'm no way sleepy, and I've a deal to say, and no one but you to [...]."
