Peter Harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position.

"Find her?" he said. "But she were here—here! Where be she? Wot did yer do with her, Father John?"

"I didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. I was taking her to Giles and Sue when——"

"Man—speak!"

Harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. Father John staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently,

"As we were passing a blind alley some one snatched her from me, right into the pitch darkness. I followed, but was pulled back myself. As soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. It is your duty now to help to find her. The police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. Beyond doubt the child is in danger. Wake up, Harris. Think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child."

"God in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "Lost—you say? And she come 'ere—and I turned her off? Oh, my little Connie!"

"Keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. You must help the police. You know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of London. You can give valuable information; come at once."

A minute or two later the two men went out together.



CHAPTER XV.

CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE.

While these dreadful things were happening to Connie, Sue rose with the dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks.

First she had to light the fire and prepare Giles's breakfast; then to eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed Giles, who still slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for her long walk from Westminster to St. Paul's Churchyard. She must be at her place of employment by eight o'clock, and Sue was never known to be late. With her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes, she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at Messrs. Cheadle's cheap sewing.

Sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. She had directness of aim and concentration of purpose.

No one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused to consider her purpose either high or noble; but Sue swerved not from aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left.

She was the bread-winner in the small family. That was her present manifest duty. And some day she would take Giles away to live in the country. That was her ambition. Every thought she had to spare from her machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand result. At night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of work she dwelt upon it.

Some day she and Giles would have a cottage in the country together. Very vague were Sue's ideas of what country life was like. She had never once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. She imagined that flowers grew either in bunches, as they were sold in Convent Garden, or singly in pots. It never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great clusters of starry primroses. No, Sue had never seen the place where she and Giles would live together when they were old. She pictured it like the town, only clean—very clean—with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of flowers for Giles without spending many pence on them.

People would have called it a poor dream, for Sue had no knowledge to guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting resolution to her face and purpose to her eyes, and encircling her round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel spreading his wings about her.

She walked along to-day brightly as usual. The day was a cold one, but Sue was in good spirits.

She was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work.

A girl sat by her side. Her name was Mary Jones. She was a weakly girl, who coughed long and often as she worked.

"I must soon give up, Sue," she panted between slight pauses in her work. "This 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and then I gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her hand to her sunken chest.

"'Tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered Sue. "Don't you think as you could jest keep back to-day, Mary Jones? Maybe you mightn't be seen, and I'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we comes back."

"Ye're real good, and I'll just mak' shift to stay in," replied Mary Jones. But then the manager came round, and the girls could say no more for the present.

At twelve o'clock, be the weather what it might, all had to turn out for half an hour. This, which seemed a hardship, was absolutely necessary for the proper ventilation of the room; but the delicate girls felt the hardship terribly, and as many of them could not afford to go to a restaurant, there was nothing for them but to wander about the streets. At the hour of release to-day it still snowed fast, but Sue with considerable cleverness, had managed to hide Mary Jones in the warm room, and now ran fast through the blinding and bitter cold to see where she could get something hot and nourishing to bring back to her. Her own dinner, consisting of a hunch of dry bread and dripping, could be eaten in the pauses of her work. Her object now was to provide for the sick girl.

She ran fast, for she knew a shop where delicious penny pies were to be had, and it was quite possible to demolish penny pies unnoticed in the large workroom. The shop, however, in question was some way off, and Sue had no time to spare. She had nearly reached it, and had already in imagination clasped the warm pies in her cold hands, when, suddenly turning a corner, she came face to face with Harris. Harris was walking along moodily, apparently lost in thought. When he saw Sue, however, he started, and took hold of her arm roughly.

"Sue," he said, "does you know as Connie came back last night?"

"Connie?" cried Sue. Her face turned pale and then red again in eagerness. "Then God 'ave heard our prayers!" she exclaimed with great fervor. "Oh! won't my little Giles be glad?"

"You listen to the end," said the man. He still kept his hand on her shoulder, not caring whether it hurt her or not.

"She come back, my purty, purty little gel, but I 'ad tuk too much, and I were rough on her and I bid her be gone, and she went. She went to Father John; 'e were kind to her, and 'e were taking her to you, w'en some willain—I don't know 'oo—caught her by the arm and pulled her down a dark alley, and she ain't been seen since. Wottever is to be done? I'm near mad about her—my pore little gel. And to think that I—I should ha' turned her aw'y!"

Sue listened with great consternation to this terrible tale. She forgot all about poor Mary Jones and the penny pie which she hoped to smuggle into the workroom for her dinner. She forgot everything in all the world but the fact that Connie had come and gone again, and that Peter Harris was full of the most awful despair and agony about her.

"I'm fit to die o' grief," said the man. "I dunno wot to do. The perlice is lookin' for her 'igh an' low, and—— Oh Sue, I am near off my 'ead!"

Sue thought for a minute.

"Is Father John looking for her too?" she said.

"W'y, yus—of course he be. I'm to meet the perlice again this afternoon, an' we'll—we'll make a rare fuss."

"Yer'll find her, in course," said Sue. "W'y, there ain't a doubt," she continued.

"Wot do yer mean by that?"

"There couldn't be a doubt," continued the girl; "for God, who brought her back to us all, 'ull help yer if yer ax 'Im."

"Do yer believe that, Sue?"

"Sartin sure I do—I couldn't live if I didn't."

"You're a queer un," said Harris, he felt a strange sort of comfort in the rough little girl's presence. It seemed to him in a sort of fashion that there was truth in her words. She was very wise—wiser than most. He had always respected her.

"You're a queer, sensible gel," he said then—"not like most. I am inclined to believe yer. I'm glad I met yer; you were always Connie's friend."

"Oh yus," said Sue; "I love her jest as though she were my real sister."

"An' yer do think as she'll come back again?"

"I'm sartin sure of it."

"Turn and walk with me a bit, Sue. I were near mad w'en I met yer, but somehow you ha' given me a scrap o' hope."

"Mr. Harris," said Sue, all of a sudden, "you were cruel to Connie last night; but w'en she comes back again you'll be different, won't yer?"

"I tuk the pledge this morning," said Harris in a gloomy voice.

"Then in course you'll be different. It were w'en yer tuk too much that you were queer. W'en you're like you are now you're a wery kind man."

"Be I, Sue?" said Harris. He looked down at the small girl. "No one else, unless it be pore Connie, iver called me a kind man."

"And I tell yer wot," continued Sue—"ef ye're sure she'll come back—as sure as I am—she——"

"Then I am sure," said Harris. "I'm as sure as there's a sky above us. There now!"

"And a God above us," said Sue.

The man was silent.

"In that case," continued Sue, "let's do our wery best. Let's 'ave iverything nice w'en she comes 'ome. Let's 'ave a feast for her, an' let me 'elp yer."

"Yer mean that yer'll come along to my room an' put things in order?" said Harris.

"Yes; and oh, Mr. Harris! couldn't yer take her a little bit of a present?"

"Right you are, wench," he said. Harris's whole face lit up. "That be a good thought!" He clapped Sue with violence on the shoulder. "Right you be! An' I know wot she've set 'er silly little 'eart on—w'y, a ring—a purty ring with a stone in it; and 'ere's a shop—the wery kind for our purpose. Let's come in—you an' me—and get her one this wery instant minute."

The two entered the shop. A drawer of rings was brought for Harris to select from. He presently chose a little ring, very fine, and with a tiny turquoise as decoration. He felt sure that this would fit Connie's finger, and laying down his only sovereign on the counter, waited for the change. Sue had gone a little away from him, to gaze in open-eyed wonder at the many trinkets exhibited for sale. Notwithstanding her excitement about Connie, she was too completely a woman not to be attracted by finery of all sorts; and here were scarves and laces and brooches and earrings—in short, that miscellaneous array of female decorations so fascinating to the taste of girls like Sue. In this absorbing moment she forgot even Connie.

In the meantime, in this brief instant while Sue was so occupied, the man who served turned his back to get his change from another drawer. He did this leaving the box with the rings on the counter. In the corner of this same box, hidden partly away under some cotton-wool, lay two lockets, one of great value, being gold, set with brilliants. In this instant, quick as thought, Harris put in his hand, and taking the diamond locket, slipped it into his pocket. He then received his change, and he and Sue left the shop together.

He noticed, however, as he walked out that the shopman was missing the locket. His theft could not remain undiscovered. Another instant and he would be arrested and the locket found on his person. He had scarcely time for the most rapid thought—certainly no time for any sense of justice to visit his not too fine conscience. The only instinct alive in him in that brief and trying moment was that of self-preservation. He must preserve himself, and the means lay close at hand. He gave Sue a little push as though he had stumbled against her, and then, while the girl's attention was otherwise occupied, he transferred the locket from his own pocket to hers, and with a hasty nod, dashed down a side-street which lay close by.

Rather wondering at his sudden exit, Sue went on. Until now she had forgotten Mary Jones. She remembered her with compunction. She also knew that she had scarcely time to get the penny pies and go back to Cheapside within the half-hour. If she ran, however, she might accomplish this feat. Sue was very strong, and could run as fast as any girl; she put wings to her feet, and went panting down the street. In the midst of this headlong career, however, she was violently arrested. She heard the cry of "Stop thief!" behind her, and glancing back, saw two men, accompanied by some boys, in full pursuit. Too astonished and frightened to consider the improbability of their pursuing her, she ran harder than ever. She felt horrified, and dreaded their rudeness should they reach her. Down side-streets and across byways she dashed, the crowd in pursuit increasing each moment. At last she found that she had run full-tilt into the arms of a policeman, who spread them out to detain her.

"What's the matter, girl? Who are you running away from?"

"Oh, hide me—hide me!" said poor Sue. "They are calling out 'Stop thief!' and running after me so hard."

Before the policeman could even reply, the owner of the pawnshop had come up.

"You may arrest that girl, policeman," he said roughly. "She and a man were in my shop just now, and one or other of 'em stole a valuable diamond locket from me."

"What a shame! I didn't touch it!" said Sue. "I never touched a thing as worn't my own in hall my life!"

"No doubt, my dear," said the policeman; "but of course you won't object to be searched?"

"No, of course," said Sue; "you may search me as much as you like—you won't get no stolen goods 'bout me;" and she raised her head fearlessly and proudly. The crowd who had now thickly collected, and who, as all crowds do, admired pluck, were beginning to applaud, and no doubt the tide was turning in Sue's favor, when the policeman, putting his hand into her pocket, drew out the diamond locket. An instant's breathless silence followed this discovery, followed quickly by some groans and hisses from the bystanders.

"Oh, but ain't she a hardened one!" two or three remarked; and all pressed close to watch the result.

Sue had turned very white—so white that the policeman put his hand on her shoulder, thinking she was going to faint.

"She is innocent," said in his heart of hearts this experienced functionary; but he further added, "It will go hard for her to prove it—poor lass!"

Aloud he said:

"I've got to take you to the lock-up, my girl; for you must say how you 'appened to come by that 'ere little trinket. The quieter you come, and the less you talk, the easier it 'ull go wid you."

"I have nothink to say," answered Sue. "I can't—can't see it at all. But I'll go wid yer," she added. She did not asseverate any more, nor even say she was innocent. She walked away by the policeman's side, the crowd still following, and the owner of the pawnshop—having recovered his property, and given his address to the policeman—returned to his place of business.

Sue walked on, feeling stunned; her thought just now was how very much poor Mary Jones would miss her penny pies.



CHAPTER XVI.

PICKLES.

The lock-up to which the policeman wanted to convey Sue was at some little distance. With his hand on her shoulder, they walked along, the crowd still following. They turned down more than one by-street, and chose all the short cuts that Constable Z could remember. One of these happened to be a very narrow passage, and a place of decidedly ill repute. The policeman, however, still holding his terrified charge, walked down it, and the crowd followed after. In the very middle of this passage—for it was little more—they were met by a mob even greater than themselves. These people were shouting, vociferating, waving frantic hands, and all pointing upwards. The policeman raised his eyes and saw that the cause of this uproar was a house on fire. It was a very tall, narrow house, and all the top of it was completely enveloped in flames. From one window, from which escape seemed impossible—for the flames almost surrounded it—a man leaned out, imploring some one to save him. The height from the ground was too great for him to jump down, and no fire-escape was yet in sight.

Policeman Z was as kind-hearted a man as ever lived. In the excitement of such a moment he absolutely forgot Sue. He rushed into the crowd, scattering them right and left, and sent those who had not absolutely lost their heads flying for the fire-escape and the engines. They all arrived soon after, and the man, who was the only person in the burning part of the house, was brought in safety to the ground.

In the midst of the shouting, eager crowd Sue stood, forgetting herself, as perhaps every one else there did also, in such intense excitement. Scarcely, however, had the rescued man reached the ground when she felt herself violently pulled from behind—indeed, not only pulled, but dragged so strongly that she almost lost her feet. She attempted to scream, but a hand was instantly placed over her mouth, and she found herself running helplessly, and against her will, down a narrow passage which flanked one side of the burning house; beyond this into a small backyard; then through another house into another yard; and so on until she entered a small, very dirty room. This room was full of unknown condiments in jars and pots, some queer stuffed figures in fancy-dresses, some wigs and curls of false hair, and several masks, false noses, etc., etc. Sue, entering this room, was pushed instantly into a large arm-chair, whereupon her captor came and stood before her. He was a lad of about her own size, and perhaps a year or two younger. He had a round, freckled face, the lightest blue eyes, and the reddest, most upright shock of hair she had ever seen. He put his arms akimbo and gazed hard at Sue, and so motionless became his perfectly round orbs that Sue thought he had been turned into stone. Suddenly, however, he winked, and said in a shrill, cheerful tone:

"Well, then, plucky 'un, 'ow does yer find yerself now?"

Not any number of shocks could quite deprive Sue of her common-sense. She had not an idea of what had become of her. Was this another and a rougher way of taking her to the lock-up? Was this queer boy friend or foe?

"Be yer agen me, boy?" she said.

"Agen yer! Well, the ingratitude! Ha'n't I jest rescued yer from the hands o' that 'ere nipper?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Sue; and the relieved tension of her poor, terrified little heart found vent in two big tears which rose to her eyes.

The red-haired boy balanced himself on one toe in order to survey those tears more carefully.

"Well," he said at length, in a tone in which there was a ludicrous mingling of wonder and contempt—"well, ye're a queer un fur a plucky un—a wery queer un. Crying! My eyes! Ain't yer hin luck not to be in prison, and ain't that a subject for rejoicing? I don't cry when I'm in luck; but then, thank goodness! I'm not a gel. Lor'! they're queer cattle, gels are—wery queer, the best o' 'em. But they're as they're made, poor things! We can't expect much from such weakness. But now look you here, you gel—look up at me, full and solemn in the face, and say if ye're hinnercent in the matter o' that 'ere locket. If yer can say quite solemn and straightforward as yer his innercent, why, I'll help yer; but if yer is guilty—and, mark me, I can tell by yer heyes ef ye're talking the truth—I can do naught, fur I'm never the party to harbor guilty folks. Now speak the truth, full and solemn; be yer hinnercent?"

Here the red-haired boy got down on his knees and brought his eyes within a few inches of Sue's eyes.

"Be yer hinnercent?" he repeated.

"Yes," answered Sue, "I'm quite, quite hinnercent; yer can believe me or not as yer pleases. I'm quite hinnercent, and I won't cry no more ef yer dislikes it. I wor never reckoned a cry-baby."

"Good!" said the boy; "I b'lieves yer. And now jest tell me the whole story. I come hup jest when the perleeceman and the pawnbroker were a-gripping yer. Lor'! I could a' twisted out o' their hands heasy enough; but then, to be thankful agen, I ain't a gel."

"There's no good twitting me wid being a gel," interrupted Sue; "gels have their use in creation same as boys, and I guess as they're often the pluckier o' the two."

"Gels pluckier! Well, I like that. However, I will say as you stood game. I guessed as you wor hinnercent then. And now jest tell me the story."

"It wor this way," began Sue, whose color and courage were beginning to return. Then she told her tale, suppressing carefully all tears, for she was anxious to propitiate the red-haired boy. She could not, however, keep back the indignation from her innocent young voice; and this indignation, being a sure sign in his mind of pluckiness, greatly delighted her companion.

"'Tis the jolliest shame I ever heard tell on in all my life," he said in conclusion; but though he said this he chuckled, and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. "Now then," he added, "there's no doubt at all as ye're hinnercent. I know that as clear—I feels as sartin on that p'int—as tho' I wor reading the secrets of my own heart. But 'tis jest equal sartin as a magistrate 'ud bring you hin guilty. He'd say—and think hisself mighty wise, too—'You had the locket, so in course yer tuk the locket, and so yer must be punished.' Then you'd be tuk from the lock-up to the House o' Correction, where you'd 'ave solitary confinement, most like, to teach you never to do so no more."

"'Ow long 'ud they keep me there?" asked Sue. "'Ow long 'ud they be wicked enough to keep me there fur what I never did?"

"Well, as it wor a first offence, and you but young, they might make it a matter of no longer than a year, or maybe eighteen months. But then, agen, they'd 'ave to consider as it wor diamonds as you tuk. They gems is so waluable that in course you must be punished according. Yes, considerin' as it wor diamonds, Sue, I would say as you got off cheap wid two years."

"You talk jest as tho' I had done it," said Sue angrily, "when you know perfect well as I'm quite hinnercent."

"Well, don't be touchy. I'm only considerin' what the judge 'ud say. I ain't the judge. Yes, you'd 'ave two years. But, lor'! it don't much matter wot time you 'ad, for you'd never be no good arter."

"Wot do you mean now?" asked Sue.

"I mean as you'd never get no 'ployment, nor be able to hold up yer head. Who, I'd like to know, 'ud employ a prison lass—and what else 'ud you be?"

Here Sue, disregarding her companion's dislike to tears, broke down utterly, and exclaimed through her sobs:

"Oh! poor Giles—poor, poor Giles! It 'ull kill my little Giles. Oh! I didn't think as Lord Jesus could give me sech big stones to walk hover."

"Now ye're gettin' complicated," exclaimed the red-haired boy. "I make 'lowance fur yer tears—ye're but a gel, and I allow as the picture's dark—but who hever is Giles? And where are the stones? Ye're setting still this 'ere minute, and I guess as the arm-chair in which I placed yer, though none o' the newest, be better than a stone."

"Giles is my brother," said Sue; "and the stones—well, the stones is 'phorical, ef yer knows wot that means."

"Bless us, no! I'm sure I don't. But tell about Giles."

So Sue wiped her eyes again and went back a little further in her life-story.

"It is complicated," said her companion when she paused—"a lame brother, poor chap, and you the support. Well, well! the more reason as you should keep out o' prison. Now, Sue, this is wot I calls deep; jest keep still fur a bit, and let me put on my considerin' cap."

The red-haired boy seated himself on the floor, thrust his two hands into his shock of hair, and stared very hard and very straight before him. In this position he was perfectly motionless for about the space of half a minute; then, jumping up, he came again very close to Sue.

"Be yer willin' to take the adwice of a person a deal wiser nor yourself? Look me full in the heyes and answer clear on that p'int."

"Yes, I'm sure I am," said Sue, in as humble a spirit as the most exalted teacher could desire.

"Good!" said the red-haired boy, giving his thigh a great clap. "Then you've got to hearken to me. Sue, there's nothink in life fur you but to hide."

"To hide!" said Sue.

"Yes. You must on no 'count whatever let the perleece find yer. We must get to discover the guilty party, and the guilty party must confess; but in the meanwhile yer must hide. There must be no smell o' the prison 'bout yer, Sue."

"Oh! but—but—boy—I don't know yer name."

"Pickles," said the red-haired boy, giving his head a bob. "Pickles, at yer sarvice."

"Well, then, Pickles," continued Sue, "if I go and hide, what 'ull become o' Giles?"

"And what 'ull come o' him ef yer go ter prison—yer goose? Now, jest yer listen to the words o' wisdom. You mustn't go back to Giles, fur as sure as you do the perleece 'ull have you. That would break that little tender brother's heart. No, no, leave Giles ter me; you must hide, Sue."

"But where, and fur how long?" asked Sue.

"Ah! now ye're comin' sensible, and axin' refreshin' questions. Where? Leave the where to me. How long? Leave the how long ter me."

"Oh Pickles! ye're real good," sobbed Sue; "and ef yer'll only promise as Giles won't die, and that he won't break his heart wid frettin', why, I'll leave it ter you—I'll leave it all ter you."

"And yer couldn't—search the world over—leave it to a safer person," said Pickles. "So now that's a bargain—I'll take care on Giles."



CHAPTER XVII.

CINDERELLA.

"The first thing to be considered, Sue," said Pickles, as he seated himself on the floor by her side, "is the disguise. The disguise must be wot I consider deep."

"Wot hever does yer mean now?" asked Sue.

"Why, yer Silly, yer don't s'pose as yer can go hout and about as you are now? Why, the perleece 'ud have yer. Don't yer s'pose as yer'll be advertised?"

"I dunno heven wot that his," said Sue.

"Oh! my heyes, ain't yer green! Well, it 'ull be, say, like this. There'll be by hall the perleece-stations placards hup, all writ hout in big print: 'Gel missing—plain gel, rayther stout, rayther short, wid round moon-shaped face, heyes small, mouth big, hair——"

"There! you needn't go on," said Sue, who, though by no means vain, scarcely relished this description. "I know wot yer mean, and I don't want ter be twitted with not being beautiful. I'd rayther be beautiful by a long way. I s'pose, as the disguise is ter change me, will it make me beautiful? I'd like that."

Pickles roared. "Well, I never!" he said. "We'll try. Let me see; I must study yer fur a bit. Hair wot's called sandy now—changed ter black. Heyebrows; no heyebrows in 'ticlar—mark 'em hout strong. Mouth: couldn't sew hup the mouth in the corners. No, Sue, I'm feared as I never can't make no pictur' of yer. But now to be serious. We must set to work, and we has no time ter spare, fur hold Fryin-pan 'ull come home, and there'll be the mischief to pay ef he finds us yere."

"Who's he?" asked Sue.

"Who? Why, the owner of this yer shop. I'm in his employ. I'm wot's called his steady right-hand man. See, Sue, yere's a pair o' scissors; get yer hair down and clip away, and I'll get ready the dye."

Pickles now set to work in earnest, and proved himself by no means an unskilled workman. In a wonderfully short space of time Sue's long, neutral-tinted hair was changed to a very short crop of the darkest hue. Her eyebrows were also touched up, and as her eyelashes happened to be dark, the effect was not quite so inharmonious as might have been feared. Pickles was in ecstasies, and declared that "Not a policeman in London 'ud know her." He then dived into an inner room in the funny little shop, and returned with an old blue petticoat and a faded red jersey. These Sue had to exchange for her own neat but sober frock.

"Ye're perfect," said Pickles, dancing round her. "Yer looks hangelic. Now fur the name."

"The name?" said Sue. "Must I 'ave a new name too?"

"In course yer must; nothink must let the name o' Sue pass yer lips. Now, mind, that slip o' the tongue might prove fatal."

"Wery well," said Sue in a resigned voice of great trouble.

"Yer needn't be so down on yer luck. I don't myself think anythink o' the name o' Sue; 'tis what I considers low and common. Now, wot's yer favorite character? Say in acting, now."

"There's no character hin all the world as I hadmires like Cinderella," said Sue.

"Oh, my heyes, Cinderella, of hall people! Worn't Cinderella wot might 'ave bin called beautiful? Dressed shabby, no doubt, and wid hard-hearted sisters—but hadn't she small feet, now? Well, Sue, I don't say as ye're remarkable fur them special features b'in' small, nor is yer looks wery uncommon; but still, ef yer have a fancy for the name, so be it. It will be fun thinkin' of the beautiful, small-footed Cinderella and looking at you. But so much the better, so come along, Cinderella, fur Fryin'-pan 'ull catch us ef we don't make haste."

"Where are we to go?" asked the poor little newly made Cinderella, with a piteous face.

"Now, yer needn't look like that. None but cheerful folks goes down wid me. Where are yer to go to? Why, to mother, of course—where else?"

"Oh, have you got a mother?" asked Sue.

"Well, wot next? 'Ow did I happen ter be born? Yes, I has a mother, and the wery best little woman in the world—so come along."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE.

Pickles and Sue had to go a long way before they reached the destination of "the best little woman in the world." They walked along by-streets and all kinds of queer places, and presently reached a part of London where Sue had never been before. They passed whole streets of warehouses, and came then to poor-looking dwelling-houses, but all of an immense height, and very old and dirty. It was the back slums of Westminster over again, but it was a Westminster severed as far as one pole is from another to Sue.

"We does a roaring trade yere," said Pickles, looking around him with the air of a proprietor well satisfied with his property.

"Wot in?" asked Sue.

"Wot hin? Well, that may surprise yer. Hin fire, of course."

"Wot do yer mean?" asked Sue.

"Wot does I mean? I mean as we deals in that 'ere rampagious helement. We belongs to the great London Fire Brigade. That his, my brother Will does; and I have a cousin wot thinks hisself no end of a swell, and he's beginning his drill. Do you suppose, you goose, as I'd have acted as I did, wid that 'ere remarkable coolness jest now, when the fire wor burning, and the man wor on the wery brink of destruction, ef fire had not bin, so to speak, my native hair? But now, here we are at last, so come along hup to mother!"

Taking Sue's hand, Pickles dragged her up flight after flight of stairs, until they reached the top of one of the very tall, dirty houses. Here he suddenly flung open a door, and pushing Sue in, sang out:

"Mother, yere I be! And let me introduce to you Cinderella. Her sisters have bin that unkind and mean as cannot be told, and she have taken refuge wid us until the Prince comes to tie on the glass slipper."

No doubt Pickles' mother was thoroughly accustomed to him, for she did not smile at all, but coming gravely forward, took Sue's two hands in hers, and looking into her face, and seeing something of the great trouble there, said in a soft, kind tone:

"Sit down, my dear—sit down. If I can help you I will."

"Oh, you can help her real fine, mother!" said Pickles, beginning to dance a hornpipe round them both. "And I said as you were the wery best little 'oman in all the world, and that you would do hall you could."

"So I will, my lad; only now do let the poor dear speak for herself."

But Sue did not. There are limits beyond which fortitude will not go, and those limits were most suddenly reached by the poor child. Her morning's early rising, her long walk to her place of business, her hard work when she got there; then her hurried run for the sick girl's lunch, her cruel betrayal, her very startling capture by Pickles; the fact that her hair had been cut off, her clothes changed, her very name altered, until she herself felt that she must really be somebody else, and not the Sue whom Giles loved.

All these things she had borne with tolerable calmness; but now (for Sue was really starving) the warm room, the bright fire—above all, the kind face that bent over her, the gentle voice that asked to hear her tale—proved too much. She put up her toil-worn hands to her face and burst into such sobs as strong people give way to in agony.

Mrs. Price beckoned to Pickles to go away, and then, sitting down by Sue's side, she waited until the overloaded heart should have become a little quieted; then she said:

"And now, my dear, you will tell me the story."

Sue did tell it—told it all—Mrs. Price sitting by and holding her hands, and absolutely not speaking a single word.

"You believes me, marm?" said Sue at last.

Mrs. Price looked in the girl's eyes and answered simply:

"Yes, poor lamb, I quite believe you. And now I am going to get you some supper."

She made Sue lie back in the easy-chair by the fire, and drawing out a little round table, laid a white cloth upon it.

Sue's mind, by this time partly relieved of its load, was able to take in its novel surroundings. The house might be very tall and very dirty, but this room at least was clean. Floor, walls, furniture—all reflected a due and most judicious use of soap and water; and the woman moving about with gentle, deft fingers, arranging now this and now that, was quite different from any woman Sue had ever seen before. She was a widow, and wore a widow's cap and a perfectly plain black dress, but she had a white handkerchief pinned neatly over her shoulders, so that she looked half-widow, half-nun.

She was tall and slender, with very beautiful dark eyes. Sue did not know whether to think her the very gravest person she had ever seen or the very brightest. Her face was thoughtful and sweet; perhaps when in repose it was sad, but she never looked at a human being without a certain expression coming into her eyes which said louder and plainer than words, "I love you."

This expression gave the hungry and poor who came in contact with her glance many a heart-thrill, and it is not too much to say they were seldom disappointed of the sympathy which the look in those dark and lovely eyes gave them reason to hope for.

Mrs. Price now laid the tea-things, giving the poor little shorn and transformed Cinderella sitting by the hearth so many expressive glances that she began to feel quite a heavenly peace stealing over her. "Worn't Jesus real good to bring me yere?" was her mental comment. She had scarcely made it before two young men came in.

These young men were dressed in the uniform of the London Fire Brigade. They looked dusty, and the taller of the two was covered with smoke and dirt.

"Mother," he said as he tossed his helmet on the table. "I've been worked almost to death. You have supper ready, I hope."

"Yes, yes, my lad—a nice little piece of boiled pork, smoking hot, and pease-pudding and potatoes. I am glad you've brought George with you. He is kindly welcome, as he knows."

"As he knows very well," answered George, with a smile.

He touched the woman's shoulder for an instant with his big hand. Then the two young men went into the next room to have a wash before supper.

"William is coming on fine," said George, when they returned, looking at the other fireman—"though you did disobey orders, William, and are safe to get a reprimand.—Fancy, Mrs. Price! this brave son of yours, returning from his day's drill, must needs see a fire and rush into it, all against orders—ay, and save a poor chap's life—before any one could prevent him."

It may be as well to explain here that each man who wishes to join the Metropolitan Fire Brigade must first have served some time at sea; also, before a man is allowed to attend a fire he must be thoroughly trained—in other words, he must attend drill. There's a drill class belonging to each station. It is under the charge of an instructor and two assistant instructors. Each man, on appointment, joins this class, and learns the use of all the different appliances required for the extinction of fire.

William Price had not quite completed his eight weeks' drill.

"Yes, it was a ticklish piece of work," continued Anderson. "The poor chap he rescued was surrounded by flames. Then, too, the street was so narrow and the crowd so great that the whole matter is simply wonderful; but that policeman who kept order was a fine fellow."

"Why, it worn't never the fire as we come from jest now!" here burst from Sue.

"Hush—hush, Cinderella!" said Pickles, who had come back, giving her a push under the table. "It 'ud be more suitable to yer present sitiwation ef yer didn't talk. In course it wor that same fire. Why, it wor that deed o' bravery done by my own nearest o' kin as incited me to hact as I did by you."

"Whoever is the girl?" said Price, noticing poor Sue for the first time.

"Cinderella's the name of this 'ere misfortunate maiden," replied Pickles; "an' yer ax no more questions, Bill, an' yer'll get no stories told."

"I must go, Mrs. Price," said Anderson; "but I'll be back again as soon as possible."

"Tell me first, George," said the widow, "how your mother is."

"I haven't been to see her for a few days, but she wrote to say that both the children who were rescued from the fire a few days back are doing fairly well. The boy was bad at first, but is now recovering."

"Ah! that was a brave deed," said Price in a voice of the greatest admiration.

"And did she tell you the names of the poor little critters?"

"She did. Connie was the name of one——"

"Connie?" cried Sue, springing to her feet.

"Sit down, Cinderella, and keep yourself quiet," cried Pickles.

George Anderson gave the queer little girl who went by this name a puzzled glance.

"Yes," he said briefly, "Connie was the name of one, and Ronald the name of the other. I never saw a more beautiful little creature in all the world than Connie."

"That's 'er!" broke from Sue's irrepressible lips.



CHAPTER XIX.

A SAINTLY LADY.

When so many strange things were happening, we may be sure that Father John was not idle. He had hoped much from Peter Harris's knowledge of the byways and dens and alleys of Westminster. But although Peter was accompanied by the sharpest detectives that Scotland Yard could provide, not the slightest clue to Connie's whereabouts could be obtained. The man was to meet more detectives again that same afternoon, and meanwhile a sudden gleam of hope darted through Father John's brain.

What a fool he had been not to think of it before! How glad he was now that he had insisted on getting the name and address of the brave fireman deliverer from Connie on the previous night!

He went straight now to the house in Carlyle Terrace. He stopped at No. 12. There he rang the bell and inquired if Mrs. Anderson were within.

Mrs. Anderson was the last woman in the world to refuse to see any one, whether rich or poor, who called upon her. Even impostors had a kindly greeting from this saintly lady; for, as she was fond of saying to herself, "If I can't give help, I can at least bestow pity."

Mrs. Anderson was no fool, however, and she could generally read in their faces the true story of a man or woman who came to her. More often than not the story was a sad one, and the chance visitor was in need of help and sympathy. When this was not the case, she was able to explain very fully to the person who had called upon her what she thought of deceit and dishonest means of gaining a livelihood; and that person, as a rule, went away very much ashamed, and in some cases determined to turn over a new leaf. When this really happened Mrs. Anderson was the first to help to get the individual who had come to her into respectable employment.

She was by no means rich, but nearly every penny of her money was spent on others; her own wants were of the simplest. The house she lived in belonged to her son, who, although a gentleman by birth, had long ago selected his profession—that of a fireman in the London Fire Brigade. He had a passion for his calling, and would not change it for the richest and most luxurious life in the world.

Now Mrs. Anderson came downstairs to interview Father John. Father John stood up, holding his hat in his hand. He always wore a black frock-coat; his hair hung long over his shoulders; his forehead was lofty; his expressive and marvelously beautiful gray eyes lit up his rugged and otherwise plain face. It was but to look at this man to know that he was absolutely impervious to flattery, and did not mind in the least what others thought about him. His very slight but perceptible deformity gave to his eyes that pathetic look which deformed people so often possess.

The moment Mrs. Anderson entered the room she recognized him.

"Why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that I have the honor of speaking to the great street preacher?"

"Not great, madam," said Father John—"quite a simple individual; but my blessed Father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a message to poor and sorrowful people."

"Sit down, won't you?" said Mrs. Anderson.

Father John did immediately take a chair. Mrs. Anderson did likewise.

"Now," said the widow, "what can I do for you?"

"I will tell you, madam. Her father and I are in great trouble about the child——"

"What child?" asked Mrs. Anderson. "You surely don't mean little Connie Harris? I have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. At her own express wish, she went to visit her father last night. I would have sent some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had been about by herself in the London streets as long as she could remember; but she has not returned."

"No, madam?"

Over Father John's face there passed a quick emotion. Then this last hope must be given up.

"You have news of her?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"I have, and very bad news."

Father John then related his story.

"Oh, why—why did I let her go?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"Don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him."

"Oh, poor little girl!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Such a sweet child, too, and so very beautiful!"

"Her beauty is her danger," said Father John.

"What do you mean?"

"She told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you."

"She has," said Mrs. Anderson.

"There is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that that notorious thief, Mrs. Warren, used the child to attract people from herself when she was stealing their goods. Mrs. Warren is one of the most noted pickpockets in London. She has been captured, but I greatly fear that some other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once more."

"What can be done?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I wish my son were here. I know he would help."

"Ah, madam," said Father John, "how proud you must be of such a son! I think I would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the world—yes, I believe I would rather belong to it than to my own; for when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and tormenting flames, you have a rare chance of getting at his soul."

"My son is a Christian as well as a gentleman," said Mrs. Anderson. "He would feel with you in every word you have uttered, Father John. I will send him a message and ask him if he can meet you here later on to-night."

"I shall be very pleased to come; and I will if I can," said Father John. "But," he added, "my time is scarcely ever my own—I am the servant of my people."

"Your congregation?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"Yes, madam; all sorts and conditions of men. I have no parish; still, I consider myself God's priest to deliver His message to sorrowful people who might not receive it from an ordained clergyman."

Mrs. Anderson was silent. Father John's eyes seemed to glow. He was looking back on many experiences. After a minute he said:

"The consolation is this: 'He that shall endure to the end—shall be saved.'"

"How very strange that you should speak of that!" said Mrs. Anderson.

"Why so, madam? Don't you believe it?"

"Oh, indeed I do! But I'll tell you why I think it strange. There is a little boy—the child who was also rescued from the fire—in my house. He was very ill at first; he is now better, but not well enough to leave his bedroom. I was anxious about him for a time, but he is, I thank God, recovering. Now, this child went on murmuring that text during his delirium—a strange one to fall from the lips of so young a child."

"Indeed, yes, madam. I am most deeply interested. I am glad you have mentioned the little boy. Connie told me about him last night. I am sorry that in my anxiety for her I forgot him."

"You could never forget little Ronald if you were to see him," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't think I ever saw quite so sweet a child. His patience, his courage, and I think I ought to add his faith, are marvelous."

"He cannot be nicer or better than a little boy of the name of Giles who lives in a very poor attic near my own room," said the preacher.

"I wonder," said Mrs. Anderson after a pause, "if you could spare time to come up and see little Ronald with me."

"I should be only too glad," said Father John.

So Mrs. Anderson took the preacher upstairs, and very softly opened the door, beyond which stood a screen. She entered, followed by the preacher, into a pretty room, which had lovely photographs hanging on the walls, that bore on childhood in different aspects. There was the summer child—the child of happiness—playing in the summer meadows, chasing butterflies and gathering flowers. And there also was the winter child—the child of extreme desolation—shivering on a doorstep in one of London's streets. There were other children, too—saintly children—St. Agnes and her lamb, St. Elizabeth, St. Ursula; and, above all, there were photographs of the famous pictures of the Child of all children, the Child of Bethlehem.

The windows of the room were shaded by soft curtains of pale blue. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and a child lay, half-sitting up, in a bed covered by a silken eider-down.

The child looked quite content in his little bed, and a trained nurse who was in the room went softly out by another door as Mrs. Anderson and the preacher entered.

"Hasn't Connie come back?" asked Ronald.

"No, dear," said Mrs. Anderson; "she's not able to do so just yet."

"I want her," said Ronald, suppressing a sigh.

"I have brought this gentleman to see you, Ronald."

"What?"

The boy cast a quick glance at the somewhat ungainly figure of Father John. Another disappointment—not the father he was waiting for. But the luminous eyes of the preacher seemed to pierce into the boy's soul. When he looked once, he looked again. When he looked twice, it seemed to him that he wanted to look forever.

"I am glad," he said; and a smile broke over his little face.

Father John sat down at once by the bedside, and Mrs. Anderson went softly out of the room.

"Waiting for something, little man?" said the street preacher.

"How can you tell?" asked Ronald.

"I see it in your eyes," said the preacher.

"It's father," said Ronald.

"Which father?" asked the preacher.

"My own," said Ronald—"my soldier father—the V. C. man, you know."

"Yes," said Father John.

"I want him," said Ronald.

"Of course you do."

"Is he likely to come soon?" asked Ronald.

"If I could tell you that, Ronald," said the street preacher, "I should be a wiser man than my Father in heaven means me to be. There is only one Person who can tell you when your earthly father will come."

"You mean Lord Christ," said Ronald.

"I mean Christ and our Father in heaven."

Ronald shut his eyes for a minute. Then he opened them.

"I want my father," he said. "I'm sort o' starving for him."

"Well," said Father John, "you have a father, you know—you have two fathers. If you can't get your earthly father down here, you're certain safe to get him up there. A boy with two fathers needn't feel starved about the heart, need he, now?"

"I suppose not," said Ronald.

"He need not, of course," said Father John. "I'll say a bit of a prayer for you to the Heavenly Father, and I know that sore feeling will go out of your heart. I know it, Ronald; for He has promised to answer the prayers of those who trust in Him. But now I want to talk to you about something else. I guess, somehow, that the next best person to your father to come to see you now is your little friend Connie."

"Yes, yes!" said Ronald. "I've missed her dreadful. Mrs. Anderson is sweet, and Nurse Charlotte very kind, and I'm beginning not to be quite so nervous about fire and smoke and danger. It's awful to be frightened. I'll have to tell my father when he comes back how bad I've been and how unlike him. But if I can't get him just now—and I'm not going to be unpatient—I want Connie, 'cos she understands."

"Of course she understands," said the preacher. "I will try and get her for you."

"But why can't she come back?"

"She can't."

"But why—why?"

"That is another thing I can't tell you."

"And I am not to be unpatient," said Ronald.

"You're to be patient—it's a big lesson—it mostly takes a lifetime to get it well learned. But somehow, when it is learned, then there's nothing else left to learn."

Ronald's eyes were so bright and so dark that the preacher felt he had said enough for the present. He bent down over the boy.

"The God above bless thee, child," he said; "and if you have power and strength to say a little prayer for Connie, do. She will come back when the Heavenly Father wills it. Good-bye, Ronald."



CHAPTER XX.

CAUGHT AGAIN.

When Connie awoke the next morning, it was to see the ugly face of Agnes bending over her.

"Stylites is to 'ome," she said briefly. "Yer'd best look nippy and come into the kitchen and 'ave yer brekfus'."

"Oh!" said Connie.

"You'll admire Stylites," continued Agnes; "he's a wery fine man. Now come along—but don't yer keep him waiting."

Connie had not undressed. Agnes poured a little water into a cracked basin for her to wash her face and hands, and showed her a comb, by no means specially inviting, with which she could comb out her pretty hair. Then, again enjoining her to "look slippy," she left the room.

In the kitchen a big breakfast was going on. A quantity of bacon was frizzling in a pan over a great fire; and Freckles, the boy who had let Connie and Agnes in the night before, was attending to it. Two men with rough faces—one of them went by the name of Corkscrew, and the other was known as Nutmeg—were standing also within the region of the warm and generous fire. But the man on whom Connie fixed her pretty eyes, when she softly opened the door and in all fear made her appearance, was of a totally different order of being.

He was a tall man, quite young, not more than thirty years of age, and remarkably handsome. He had that curious combination of rather fair hair and very dark eyes and brows. His face was clean-shaven, and the features were refined and delicate without being in the least effeminate; for the cruel strength of the lower jaw and firmly shut lips showed at a glance that this man had a will of iron. His voice was exceedingly smooth and gentle, however, in intonation.

When he saw Connie he stepped up to her side and, giving her a gracious bow, said:

"Welcome to the kitchen, young lady."

"It's Stylites—bob yer curtsy," whispered Agnes in Connie's ear.

So Connie bobbed her curtsy. Was this the man she was to be so dreadfully afraid of? Her whole charming little face broke into a smile.

"I'm so glad as you're Stylites!" she said.

The compliment, the absolutely unexpected words, the charm of the smile, had a visible effect upon the man. He looked again at Connie as though he would read her through and through; then, taking her hand, he led her to the breakfast-table.

"Freckles," he said, "put a clean plate and knife on the table. That plate isn't fit for a young lady to eat off."

Freckles grinned from ear to ear, showing rows of yellow teeth. He rushed off to wash the plate in question, and returned with it hot and shining to lay again before Connie's place. Simeon Stylites himself helped the little girl to the choicest pieces of bacon, to delicate slices of white bread, and to any other good things which were on the table. As he did this he did not speak once, but his eyes seemed to be everywhere. No one dared do a thing on the sly. The rough-looking men, Corkscrew and Nutmeg, were desired in a peremptory tone to take their mugs of tea to another table at the farther end of the great room. One of them ventured to grumble, and both cast angry glances at Connie. Stylites, however, said, "Shut that!" and they were instantly mute as mice.

The boy Freckles also took his breakfast to the other table; but Agnes sat boldly down, and pushing her ill-favored face forward, addressed Simeon in familiar style:

"I nabbed her—yer see."

"Shut that!" said Stylites.

Agnes flushed an angry red, gave Connie a vindictive look, but did not dare to utter another word. Connie ate her breakfast with wonderful calm, and almost contentment. During the night which had passed she had gone through terrible dreams, in which Simeon Stylites had figured largely. He had appeared to her in those dreams as an ogre—a monster too awful to live. But here was a gracious gentleman, very goodly to look upon, very kind to her, although rude and even fierce to the rest of the party.

"He'll let me go 'ome," thought Connie; "he 'ave a kind 'eart."

The meal came to an end. When it did so Corkscrew came up and inquired if the young "amattur" were "goin' to 'ave her first lesson in perfessional work."

"Shut that!" said Stylites again. "You go into cellar No. 5 and attend to the silver, Corkscrew.—Nutmeg, you'll have the other jewelry to put in order this morning. Is the furnace in proper order?"

"Yus, sir."

"Get off both of you and do your business. We're going out this evening."

"When, sir?"

"Ten o'clock—sharp's the word."

"On wot, sir?"

"No. 17's the job," said Simeon Stylites.

"And wot am I to do?" said Agnes.

"Stay indoors and mend your clothes."

"In this room, sir?"

"No; your bedroom."

"Please, Simeon Stylites, yer ain't thanked me yet for bringin' Connie along."

For answer Stylites put his hand into his pocket, produced half-a-crown, and tossed it to Agnes.

"Get into your room, and be quick about it," he said.

"May I take Connie along, please, sir?"

"Leave the girl alone. Go!"

Agnes went.

"Come and sit in this warm chair by the fire, dear," said Stylites.

Connie did so. The smile round her lips kept coming and going, going and coming. She was touched; she was soothed; she had not a scrap of fear; this great, strong, kind man would certainly save her. He was so different from dreadful Mammy Warren.

"Freckles," said the chief, "wash the breakfast things; put them in order; take them all into the pantry. When you have done, go out by the back door, being careful to put on the old man's disguise to-day. Fasten the wig firmly on, and put a patch over your eye. Here's five shillings; get food for the day, and be here by twelve o'clock sharp. Now go."

"Yus, sir."

Freckles had an exceedingly cheerful manner. He knew very little fear. The strange life he led gave him a sort of wild pleasure. He winked at Connie.

"Somethin' wery strange be goin' to 'appen," he said to himself. "A hamattur like this a-brought in by private horders, an' no perfessional lesson to be tuk." He thought how he himself would enjoy teaching this pretty child some of the tricks of the trade. Oh, of course, she was absolutely invaluable. He didn't wonder that Mammy had brought in such spoil when Connie was there. But even Freckles had to depart, and Connie presently found herself alone with the chief.

He stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine gentleman, and Connie was more and more reassured about him.

"Please, sir——" she began.

"Stop!" he interrupted.

"Mayn't I speak, sir?"

"No—not now. For God's sake don't plead with me; I can't stand that."

"Why, sir?"

But Connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the agony she had undergone in Mammy Warren's house seemed as nothing in comparison. The next minute, however, the cruel look had departed. Simeon Stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and looked into Connie's eyes.

"Allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and raised her little face and looked at it.

"Who's your father?" he asked.

"Peter Harris."

"Trade?"

"Blacksmith, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"Adam Street, sir; and——"

"Hush! Only answer my questions."

Stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and Connie felt a blush of pain sweeping over her face.

"How long were you with that woman Warren?"

"Dunno, sir."

"What do you mean by answering me like that?"

"Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there—bad fire—can't remember, please, sir."

"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."

Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He felt its weight and examined its quality.

"Sit down again," he said.

"Yus, sir."

"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."

"Please, sir——"

"Hush!"

"Yus, sir."

"I repeat—and I wish you to listen—that in my profession you would rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?"

"No—I mean I'm not sure——"

"You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand."

"Oh, sir."

"Not really necessary."

Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face.

"But you miss a good deal," said Stylites—"yes, a very great deal. Tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs. Warren's establishment."

"I did machine-work, sir."

"I guessed as much—or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work—attic work?—Shop?"

"Yus, sir—in Cheapside, sir—a workshop for cheap clothing, sir."

"Did you like it?"

"No, sir."

"I should think not. Let me look at your hand."

He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully.

"Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?"

Connie shook her head.

"You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes."

"To wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?"

"Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yus, sir—ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John, and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me."

"But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald, but even that is problematical—you'd have to give up the rest."

"Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please."

"Do you think that matters?" said Stylites.

"Wot, sir?"

"That you'd rather not go?"

"I dunno, sir."

"It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come here aren't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl—they've got to do what I order."

The voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife were cutting something.

"Yus, sir—yus, sir."

"Connie"—the man's whole tone altered—"what will you give me if I let you go?" "Oh, sir——"

"I want you to give me something very big, I've taken great trouble to secure you. You're the sort of little girl I want; you would be very useful to me. You have come in here—it is true you haven't the least idea where this house is—but you've come in, and you've seen me, and you've discovered the name which these low people call me. Of course, you can understand that my real name is not Simeon Stylites—I have a very different name; and my home isn't here—I have a very different home. I would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps send you to another home. You should never know want, and no one would be unkind to you. You would be as a daughter to me, and I am a lonely man."

"Oh, sir—sir!" said poor Connie, "I—I like you, sir—I'm not afeered—no, not much afeered—but if you 'ud only let the others come——"

"That I cannot do, girl. If you choose to belong to me you must give up the others."

"Ef I choose, sir—may I choose?"

"Yes—on a condition."

The man who called himself Simeon Stylites looked at the girl with a queer, hungry expression in his eyes.

"I wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and I was not in the least prepared to be sentimental. But I had a little sister like you. She died when she was rather younger than you. I loved her, and she loved me. I was quite a good man then, and a gentleman——"

"Oh, sir—ye're that now."

"No, girl—I am not. There are things that a gentleman would do which I would not do, and there are things which no gentleman would do which I do. I have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and I live—well, child, I want for nothing. My profession is very lucrative—very."

Connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man, with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice.

"When I saw you this morning," said Stylites, "I knew at once it was no go. You were like the little Eleanor whom alone in all the world I ever truly loved. You are too young to be told my story, or I would tell it to you."

"Oh, sir," said Connie, "I'd real like to comfort yer."

"You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty—on a condition."

"Wot's that?" said Connie.

"That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. But I won't have my profession and my chances in life imperilled. Do you promise?"

"Sir, I'll niver,—niver tell."

"You must promise more strongly than that—the others must be witnesses."

"Oh, sir—oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word."

The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into Connie's face.

"I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of Eleanor, who went back to God at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And perhaps you may be able to tell her that I—a man given over to extreme wickedness—did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your friends."

"Sir——"

"Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have just said."

Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly in.

"Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively.

Agnes brought them.

"Be I to take her out, sir?" she said.

"No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.—Are you ready, Connie?"

"Yus, sir."

Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. He and Connie got in.

They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town.

"You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl.

"No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell."

"Well, then—good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

"Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a shilling—you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon Stylites."



CHAPTER XXI.

SAFE HOME AT LAST.

When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street. Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later than three o'clock.

They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives—ordinary-looking men in plain clothes—but also the street preacher?

The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed close.

"Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank God on your knees—your child is safe at home."

"Wot?" said Harris.

In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he had just committed! And yet God was kind, and had given him back his child.

"Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was."

"It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word—not a word."

"Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father."

The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire. Already her womanly influences had been at work.

The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was waiting—expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face.

"Father!" she cried as Harris—brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth—almost staggered into the room.

He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, passionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench," pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat, trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compassion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt. But Father John read deeper below the surface.

The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome.

The detectives began to question Connie.

"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who dragged you into that court last night?"

"I won't say," answered Connie.

"You won't say? But you know."

"I won't say nothing," said Connie.

"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself. "Yer've got to say—yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up? Speak!"

"I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most faithfully not iver to tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to anybody in all the world."

There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice.

"I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up, and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each other.

"If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what contempt of the law meant."

"But I am not in the witness-box," said Connie, her tone suddenly becoming gay. "It was awful kind of people to look for me, but they might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. I'm 'ere now quite safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and I'm niver goin' to tell. Please, Father John, you won't ask me?"

"No, my child," said Father John. "You have made a promise, perhaps a rash one, but I should be the last to counsel you to break it."

Nothing more could be gained from Connie at present; and by-and-by Father John and the two detectives left her alone with Harris. When the door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into Connie's gentle eyes. Beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very queer—fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper. Connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had never witnessed in him before. He must really love her. He knew nothing about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. Then he did not know what he was doing.

Connie was the last to bear him malice for what—like many other little girls of her class—she considered he could not help. Most of the children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. It seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary part of fathers—that they all took what was not good for them, and were exceedingly unpleasant under its influence.

She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair. Then he got up restlessly.

"I be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "You stay 'ere."

"Oh, please, father," said Connie, "ef you be goin' out, may I go 'long and pay Giles a wisit? I want so much to have a real good talk with him."

When Connie mentioned the word Giles, Harris gave quite a perceptible start. Something very like an oath came from his lips; then he crushed back his emotion.

"Hall right," he said; "but don't stay too long there. And plait up that 'air o' yourn, and put it tight round yer 'ead; I don't want no more kidnappin' o' my wench."

There was a slight break in the rough man's voice, and Connie's little sensitive heart throbbed to the tone of love. A minute later Harris had gone out, and Connie, perceiving that it was past four o'clock, and that it would not be so very long before Sue was back from Cheapside, prepared to set off in quite gay spirits to see little Giles.

She went into her tiny bedroom. It was a very shabby room, nothing like as well furnished as the one she had occupied at Mammy Warren's. But oh, how glad she was to be back again! How sweet the homely furniture looked! How dear was that cracked and handleless jug! How nice to behold again the wooden box in which she kept her clothes!

The little girl now quickly plaited her long, thick hair, arranged it tightly round her head, and putting on a shabby frock and jacket, and laying the dark blue, which had seen such evil days, in the little trunk, she hastily left the room.

She was not long in making her appearance in Giles's very humble attic. Her heart beat as she mounted the well-worn stairs. How often—oh, how often she had though of Giles and Sue! How she had longed for them! The next minute she had burst into the room where the boy was lying, as usual, flat on his back.

"Giles," she said, "I've come back."

"Connie!" answered Giles. He turned quickly to look at her. His face turned first red, then very pale; but the next minute he held up his hand to restrain further words.

"Don't say anything for half a minute, Connie, for 'e's goin' to speak."

"Big Ben? Oh!" said Connie.

She remembered what Big Ben had been to her and to Ronald in Mammy Warren's dreadful rooms. She too listened, half-arrested in her progress across the room. Then, above the din and roar of London, the sweet chimes pealed, and the hour of five o'clock was solemnly proclaimed.

"There!" said Giles. "Did yer 'ear wot he said now?"

"Tell us—do tell us!" said Connie.

"'The peace of God which passeth all understanding.'" said Giles. "Ain't it fine?"

"Oh yus," said Connie—"yus! Giles—little Giles—'ow I ha' missed yer! Oh Giles, Giles! this is the peace o' God come back to me again."

Giles did not answer, and Connie had time to watch him. It was some weeks now since she had seen him—weeks so full of events that they were like a lifetime to the child; and in those weeks a change had come over little Giles. That pure, small, angel face of his looked smaller, thinner, and more angelic than ever. It seemed as if a breath might blow him away. His sweet voice itself was thin and weak.

"I did miss yer, Connie," he said at last. "But then, I were never frightened; Sue were—over and over."

"And w'y weren't yer frightened, Giles?" said Connie. "You 'ad a reason to be, if yer did but know."

"I did know," said Giles, "and that were why I didn't fret. I knew as you were safe—I knew for sartin sure that Big Ben 'ud talk to yer—'e'd bring yer a message, same as 'e brings to me."

"Oh—he did—he did!" said Connie. "I might ha' guessed that you'd think that, for the message were so wery strong. It were indeed as though a Woice uttered the words. But oh, Giles—I 'ave a lot to tell yer!"

"Well," said Giles, "and I am ready to listen. Poke up the fire a bit, and then set near me. Yer must stop talking w'en 'e speaks, but otherwise you talk and I listen."

"Afore I do anything," said Connie—"'ave you 'ad your tea?"

"No. I didn't want it. I'll 'ave it w'en Sue comes 'ome."

"Poor Sue!" said Connie. "I'm that longin' to see her! I 'ope she won't be hangry."

"Oh, no," said Giles. "We're both on us too glad to be angry. We missed yer sore, both on us."

While Giles was speaking Connie had put on the kettle to boil. She had soon made a cup of tea, which she brought to the boy, who, although he had said he did not want it, drank it off with dry and thirsty lips.

"Dear Connie!" he said when he gave her the cup to put down.

"Now you're better," said Connie, "and I'll speak."

She began to tell her story, which quickly absorbed Giles, bringing color into his cheeks and brightness into his eyes, so that he looked by no means so frail and ill as he had done when Connie first saw him. She cheered up when she noticed this, and reflected that doubtless Giles was no worse. It was only because she had not seen him for so long that she was really frightened.

When her story was finished Giles spoke:

"You're back, and you're safe—and it were the good Lord as did it. Yer'll tell me 'bout the fire over agin another day; and yer'll tell me 'bout that little Ronald, wot 'ave so brave a father, another day. But I'm tired now a bit. It's wonnerful, all the same, wot brave fathers do for their children. W'en I think o' mine, an' wot 'e wor, an' 'ow 'e died, givin' up his life for others, I'm that proud o' him, an' comforted by him, an' rejoiced to think as I'll see 'im agin, as is almost past talkin' on. But there! you'd best go 'ome now; you're quite safe, for 'E wot gives Big Ben 'is message 'ull regard yer."

"But why mayn't I wait for Sue?" said Connie.

"No," said Giles in a faint tone; "I'm too tired—I'm sort o' done up, Connie—an' I can't listen, even to dear Sue axin' yer dozens and dozens o' questions. You go 'ome now, an' come back ef yer like later on, w'en Sue 'ull be 'ome and I'll ha' broke the news to her. She knows she must be very quiet in the room with me, Connie."

So Connie agreed to this; first of all, however, placing a glass with a little milk in it by Giles's side. She then returned to her own room, hoping that she might find her father there before her.

He was not there; his place was empty. Connie, however, was not alarmed, only it had struck her with a pang that if he really loved her half as much as she loved him he would have come on that first evening after her return. She spent a little time examining the room and putting it into ship-shape order, and then suddenly remembered that she herself was both faint and hungry.

She set the kettle on, therefore, to boil, and made herself some tea. There was a hunch of bread and a piece of cold bacon in the great cupboard, which in Connie's time was generally stored with provisions. She said to herself:

"I must ax father for money to buy wittles w'en he comes in." And then she made a meal off some of the bacon and bread, and drank the sugarless and milkless tea as though it were nectar. She felt very tired from all she had undergone; and as the time sped by, and Big Ben proclaimed the hours of seven, eight, and nine, she resolved to wait no longer for her father. She hoped indeed, he would not be tipsy to-night but she resolved if such were the case, and he again refused to receive her, to go to Mrs. Anderson and beg for a night's lodging.

First of all, however, she would visit Giles and Sue. Giles would have told Sue the most exciting part of the story, and Sue would be calm and practical and matter-of-fact; but of course, at the same time, very, very glad to see her. Connie thought how lovely it would be to get one of Sue's hearty smacks on her cheek, and to hear Sue's confident voice saying:

"You were a silly. Well, now ye're safe 'ome, you'll see as yer stays there."

Connie thought no words would be quite so cheerful and stimulating to hear as those matter-of-fact words of Sue's. She soon reached the attic. She opened the door softly, and yet with a flutter at her heart.

"Sue," she said. But there was no Sue in the room; only Giles, whose face was very, very white, and whose gentle eyes were full of distress.

"Come right over 'ere, Connie," he said. She went and knelt by him.

"Ye're not well," she said. "Wot ails yer?"

"Sue ain't come 'ome," he answered—"neither Sue nor any tidin's of her. No, I ain't frightened, but I'm—I'm lonesome, like."

"In course ye're not frightened," said Connie, who, in the new role of comforter for Giles, forgot herself.

"I'll set with yer," she said, "till Sue comes 'ome. W'y, Giles, anythink might ha' kep' her."

"No," said Giles, "not anythink, for she were comin' 'ome earlier than usual to-night, an' we was to plan out 'ow best to get me a new night-shirt, an' Sue herself were goin' to 'ave a evenin' patchin' her old brown frock. She were comin' 'ome—she 'ad made me a promise; nothin' in all the world would make her break it—that is, ef she could 'elp herself."

"Well, I s'pose she couldn't 'elp herself," said Connie. "It's jest this way. They keep her in over hours—they often do that at Cheadle's."

"They 'aven't kep' 'er in to-night," said Giles.

"Then wot 'ave come to her?" "I dunno; only Big Ben——"

"Giles dear, wot do yer mean?"

"I know," said Giles, with a catch in his voice, "as that blessed Woice comforts me; but there! I must take the rough with the smooth. 'E said w'en last 'e spoke, 'In all their affliction 'E were afflicted.' There now! why did those words sound through the room unless there is trouble about Sue?"

Connie argued and talked, and tried to cheer the poor little fellow. She saw, however, that he was painfully weak, and when ten o'clock struck from the great clock, and the boy—his nerves now all on edge—caught Connie's hand, and buried his face against it, murmuring, "The Woice has said them words agin," she thought it quite time to fetch a doctor.

"You mustn't go on like this, Giles," she said, "or yer'll be real ill. I'm goin' away, and I'll be back in a minute or two."

She ran downstairs, found a certain Mrs. Nelson who knew both Sue and Giles very well, described the state of the child, and begged of Mrs. Nelson to get the doctor in.

"Wull, now," said that good woman, "ef that ain't wonnerful! Why, Dr. Deane is in the 'ouse this very blessed minute attending on Hannah Blake, wot broke her leg. I'll send him straight up to Giles, Connie, ef yer'll wait there till he comes. Lor, now!" continued Mrs. Nelson, "w'y hever should Sue be so late—and this night, of all nights?"

Connie, very glad to feel that the doctor was within reach, returned to the boy, who now lay with closed eyes, breathing fast. Dr. Deane was a remarkably kind young man. He knew the sorrows of the poor, and they all loved him, and when he saw Giles he bent down over the little fellow and made a careful examination. He then cheered up the boy as best he could, and told him that he would send him a strengthening medicine, also a bottle of port-wine, of which he was to drink some at intervals, and other articles of food.

"Wen 'ull Sue come back?" asked Giles of the doctor.

"Can't tell you that, my dear boy. Your sister may walk in at any minute, but I am sure this little friend will stay with you for the night."

"Yus, if I may let father know," said Connie.

"You mustn't fret, Giles; that would be very wrong," said the doctor. He then motioned Connie on to the landing outside. "The boy is ill," he said, "and terribly weak—he is half-starved. That poor, brave little sister of his does what she can for him, but it is impossible for her to earn sufficient money to give him the food he requires. I am exceedingly sorry for the boy, and will send him over a basket of good things."

"But," said Connie, her voice trembling, "is he wery, wery ill?"

"Yes," said the doctor—"so ill that he'll soon be better. In his case, that is the best sort of illness, is it not? Oh, my child, don't cry!"

"Do yer mean that Giles is goin'—goin' right aw'y?" whispered Connie.

"Right away—and before very long. It's the very best thing that could happen to him. If he lived he would suffer all his life. He won't suffer any more soon. Now go back to him, and cheer him all you can."

Connie did go back. Where had she learnt such wonderful self-control—she who, until all her recent trials, had been rather a selfish little girl, thinking a good deal of her pretty face and beautiful hair, and rebelling when trouble came to her? She had chosen her own way, and very terrible trials had been hers in consequence. She had learned a lesson, partly from Ronald, partly from Big Ben, partly from the words of her little Giles, whom she had loved all her life. For Giles's sake she would not give way now.

"Set you down, Connie—right here," said Giles.

She sat down, and he looked at her.

"Wot do doctor say?" said Giles.

"Oh, that ye're a bit weakly, Giles. He's goin' to send yer a basket o' good wittles."

Giles smiled. Then he held out his shadowy little hand and touched Connie.

"Niver mind," he said softly; "I know wot doctor said."

A heavenly smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes.

"It won't be jest yet," he said. "There'll be plenty o' time. Connie, wull yer sing to me?"

"Yus," said Connie, swallowing a lump in her throat.

"Sing ''Ere we suffer.'"

Connie began. How full and rich her voice had grown! She remembered that time when, out in the snow, she had sung—little Ronald keeping her company:

"Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again, In Heaven we part no more. Oh! that will be joyful, When we meet to part no more."

The words of the hymn were sung to the very end, Giles listening in an ecstasy of happiness.

"Now, 'Happy Land,'" he said.

Connie sang:

"There is a Happy Land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day."

The second hymn was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought a bottle of medicine and a large basket. The contents of the basket were laid on the table—a little crisp loaf of new bread, a pat of fresh butter, half a pound of tea, a small can of milk, a pound of sugar, half-a-dozen new-laid eggs, and a chicken roasted whole, also a bottle of port-wine.

"Now then," said Connie, "look, Giles—look!"

The messenger took away the basket. Even Giles was roused to the semblance of appetite by the sight of the tempting food. Connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-butter to the child. He ate a little; then he looked up at her.

"You must eat, too, Connie. Why, you be white and tired!"

Connie did not refuse. She made a small meal, and then, opening the bottle of wine with a little corkscrew which had also been sent, kept the precious liquid in readiness to give to Giles should he feel faint.

Eleven o'clock rang out in Big Ben's great and solemn voice. Connie was very much startled when she heard the great notes; but, to her surprise, Giles did not take any notice. He lay happy, with an expression on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away.

"Connie," he said after a minute, "be yer really meanin' to spend the night with me?"

"Oh yus," said Connie, "ef yer'll 'ave me."

"You've to think of your father, Connie—he may come back. He may miss yer. Yer ought to go back and see him, and leave him a message."

"I were thinking that," said Connie; "and I won't be long. I'll come straight over here the very minute I can, and ef Sue has returned——"

"Sue won't come back—not yet," said Giles.

"Why, Giles—how do you know?"

"Jesus Christ told me jest now through the Woice o' Big Ben," said the boy.

"Oh Giles—wot?"

"'E said, 'Castin' all your care on God, for He careth for you.' I ha' done it, and I'm not frettin' no more. Sue's all right; God's a-takin' care of her. I don't fret for Sue now, no more than I fretted for you. But run along and tell your father, and come back." Connie went.

At this hour of night the slums of Westminster are not the nicest place in the world for so pretty a girl to be out. Connie, too, was known by several people, and although in her old clothes, and with her hair fastened round her head, she did not look nearly so striking as when Mammy Warren had used her as a decoy-duck in order to pursue her pickpocket propensities, yet still her little face was altogether on a different plane from the ordinary slum children.

"W'y, Connie," said a rough woman, "come along into my den an' tell us yer story."

"Is it Connie Harris?" screamed another. "W'y, gel, w'ere hever were yer hall this time? A nice hue and cry yer made! Stop 'ere this minute and tell us w'ere yer ha' been."

"I can't," said Connie. "Giles is bad, and Sue ain't come 'ome. I want jest to see father, and then to go back to Giles. Don't keep me, neighbors."

Now, these rough people—the roughest and the worst, perhaps, in the land—had some gleams of good in them; and little Giles was a person whom every one had a soft word for.

"A pore little cripple!" said the woman who had first spoken.—"Get you along at once, Connie; he's in."

"I be sorry as the cripple's bad, and Sue not returned," cried another. "I 'ope Sue's not kidnapped too. It's awful w'en folks come to kidnappin' one's kids."

While the women were talking Connie made her escape, and soon entered her father's room. She gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension when she saw him there. Was he drunk? Would he again turn her out into the street? She didn't know—she feared. Peter Harris, however, was sober. That had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made it quite impossible for him ever to drink again.

He looked at Connie with a strange nervousness.

"Wull," he said, "you be late! And 'ow's Giles?"

He did not dare to ask for Sue. His hope—for he had a hope—was that Sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had transferred to her pocket. In that case he might somehow manage to get it away again without her knowing anything whatever with regard to his vile conduct. If God was good enough for that, why, then indeed He was a good God, and Harris would follow Him to his dying day. He would go to the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious, church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his lips. He had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of saving Sue at his own expense. If only she had escaped unsuspected, then indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very devils of hell might enter into his heart.

"'Ow's Giles? 'Ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?"

"Oh father," said Connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "Giles is wery, wery bad—I 'ad to send for the doctor. 'E come, and 'e said—ah! 'e said as 'ow little Giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. I can't—can't speak on it!"

Connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. Harris drew a breath at once of relief and suspicion. He was sorry, of course, for little Giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do with his death. It was Sue he was thinking about. Of course Sue was there, or Connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having returned home.

Connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through which she had so lately passed.

"Connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no longer, "Sue must be in great takin'—poor Sue!"

"But, father," said Connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all—Sue ain't there!"

"Not there? Not to 'ome?" thundered Harris.

"No, father—she ha' niver come back. It's goin' on for twelve o'clock—an' Giles expected her soon arter six! She ain't come back, 'ave Sue. Wottever is to be done, father?"