"You must not lie here, my little one. You must come with me."
"No, no. I can't leave Theophile. I want the good dear Theophile."
"We will go and seek him, Bebelle. We will go and look for him in
England. We will go and look for him at my daughter's, Bebelle."
"Shall we find him there?"
"We shall find the best part of him there. Come with me, poor forlorn
little one. Heaven is my witness," said the Englishman, in a low voice,
as, before he rose, he touched the turf above the gentle Corporal's
breast, "that I thankfully accept this trust!"
It was a long way for the child to have come unaided. She was soon
asleep again, with her embrace transferred to the Englishman's neck. He
looked at her worn shoes, and her galled feet, and her tired face, and
believed that she had come there every day.
He was leaving the grave with the slumbering Bebelle in his arms, when he
stopped, looked wistfully down at it, and looked wistfully at the other
graves around. "It is the innocent custom of the people," said Mr. The
Englishman, with hesitation. "I think I should like to do it. No one
sees."
Careful not to wake Bebelle as he went, he repaired to the lodge where
such little tokens of remembrance were sold, and bought two wreaths. One,
blue and white and glistening silver, "To my friend;" one of a soberer
red and black and yellow, "To my friend.
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