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Sue, A Little Heroine

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #20071 · 421,250 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Sue, A Little Heroine

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: December 9, 2006 [eBook #20071]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20071

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SUE
A LITTLE HEROINE

by

L. T. MEADE

Author of
"A Girl from America," "The Princess of the Revels,"
"Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl," "A Sweet Girl Graduate," etc.







New York
The New York Book Company
1910



BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

L. T. Meade (Mrs. Elizabeth Thomasina Smith), English novelist, was born
at Bandon, County Cork, Ireland, 1854, the daughter of Rev. R. T. Meade,
Rector of Novohal, County Cork, and married Toulmin Smith in 1879. She
wrote her first book, _Lettie's Last Home_, at the age of seventeen and
since then has been an unusually prolific writer, her stories attaining
wide popularity on both sides of the Atlantic.

She worked in the British Museum, living in Bishopsgate Without, making
special studies of East London life which she incorporated in her
stories. She edited _Atlanta_ for six years. Her pictures of girls,
especially in the influence they exert on their elders, are drawn with
intuitive fidelity; pathos, love, and humor, as in _Daddy's Girl_,
flowing easily from her pen. She has traveled extensively, being devoted
to motoring and other outdoor sports.

Among more than fifty novels she has written, dealing largely with
questions of home life, are: _David's Little Lad_; _Great St.
Benedict's_; _A Knight of To-day_ (1877); _Miss Toosey's Mission_;
_Bel-Marjory_ (1878); _Laddie; Outcast Robbin, or, Your Brother and
Mine_; _A Cry from the Great City_; _White Lillie and Other Tales_;
_Scamp and I_; _The Floating Light of Ringfinnan_; _Dot and Her
Treasures_; _The Children's Kingdom: the Story of Great Endeavor_; _The
Water Gipsies_; _A Dweller in Tents_; _Andrew Harvey's Wife_; _Mou-setse:
A Negro Hero_ (1880); _Mother Herring's Chickens_ (1881); _A London
Baby: the Story of King Roy_ (1883); _Hermie's Rose-Buds and Other
Stories_; _How it all Came Round_; _Two Sisters_ (1884); _Autocrat of
the Nursery_; _Tip Cat_; _Scarlet Anemones_; _The Band of Three_; _A
Little Silver Trumpet_; _Our Little Ann_; _The Angel of Love_ (1885); _A
World of Girls_ (1886); _Beforehand_; _Daddy's Boy_; _The O'Donnells of
Inchfawn_; _The Palace Beautiful_; _Sweet Nancy_ (1887); _Deb and the
Duchess_ (1888); _Nobody's Neighbors_; _Pen_ (1888); _A Girl from
America_ (1907).




CONTENTS

        I. BIG BEN'S VOICE.                           1 
       II. A SERVANT OF GOD.                          3 
      III. GOOD SECURITY.                             7 
       IV. SOLITARY HOURS.                            9 
        V. EAGER WORDS.                              10 
       VI. DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK.                   12 
      VII. SHOPPING.                                 21 
     VIII. COMPARISONS.                              26 
       IX. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY.                  31 
        X. THE RETURN TO LONDON.                     35 
       XI. A NEW DEPARTURE.                          44 
      XII. LEFT ALONE.                               48 
     XIII. PETER HARRIS.                             60 
      XIV. THE SEARCH.                               66 
       XV. CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE.                 69 
      XVI. PICKLES.                                  74 
     XVII. CINDERELLA.                               78 
    XVIII. THE METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE.            79 
      XIX. A SAINTLY LADY.                           83 
       XX. CAUGHT AGAIN.                             87 
      XXI. SAFE HOME AT LAST.                        94 
     XXII. NEWS OF SUE.                             105 
    XXIII. AMATEUR DETECTIVE.                       109 
     XXIV. MOTHER AND SON.                          112 
      XXV. ABOUT RONALD.                            113 
     XXVI. TWO CUPS OF COFFEE.                      124 
    XXVII. DELAYED TRIAL.                           127 
   XXVIII. CINDERELLA WOULD SHIELD THE REAL THIEF.  130 
     XXIX. A LITTLE HEROINE.                        132 
      XXX. WHAT WAS HARRIS TO HER?                  134 
     XXXI. A STERN RESOLVE.                         136 
    XXXII. AN UNEXPECTED ACCIDENT.                  137 
   XXXIII. A POINTED QUESTION.                      138 
    XXXIV. PICKLES TO THE FORE AGAIN.               141 
     XXXV. THE WINGS ARE GROWING.                   142 
    XXXVI. A CRISIS.                                143 
   XXXVII. THE HAPPY GATHERING.                     151 




SUE: A LITTLE HEROINE.

CHAPTER I.

BIG BEN'S VOICE.


Sue made a great effort to push her way to the front of the crowd. The
street preacher was talking, and she did not wish to lose a word. She
was a small, badly made girl, with a freckled face and hair inclined to
red, but her eyes were wonderfully blue and intelligent. She pushed and
pressed forward into the thick of the crowd. She felt a hand on her
shoulder, and looking up, saw a very rough man gazing at her.

"Be that you, Peter Harris?" said Sue. "An' why didn't yer bring Connie
along?"

"Hush!" said some people in the crowd.

The preacher raised his voice a little higher:

"'Tell His disciples and Peter that He goeth before you into Galilee.'"

Peter Harris, the rough man, trembled slightly. Sue found herself
leaning against him. She knew quite well that his breath was coming
fast.

"His disciples and Peter," she said to herself.

The street preacher had a magnificent voice. It seemed to roll above the
heads of the listening crowd, or to sink to a penetrating whisper which
found its echo in their hearts. The deep, wonderful eyes of the man had
a power of making people look at him. Sue gazed with all her might and
main.

"Father John be a good un," she said to herself. "He be the best man in
all the world."

After the discourse--which was very brief and full of stories, and just
the sort which those rough people could not help listening to--a hymn
was sung, and then the crowd dispersed.

Sue was amongst them. She was in a great hurry. She forgot all about
John Atkins, the little street preacher to whom she had been listening.
She soon found herself in a street which was gaily lighted; there was a
gin-palace at one end, another in the middle, and another at the farther
end. This was Saturday night: Father John was fond of holding vigorous
discourses on Saturday nights. Sue stopped to make her purchases. She
was well-known in the neighborhood, and as she stepped in and out of one
shop and then of another, she was the subject of a rough jest or a
pleasant laugh, just as the mood of the person she addressed prompted
one or other. She spent a few pence out of her meager purse, her
purchases were put into a little basket, and she found her way home. The
season was winter. She turned into a street back of Westminster; it went
by the name of Adam Street. It was very long and rambling, with broken
pavements, uneven roadways, and very tall, narrow, and dirty houses.

In a certain room on the fourth floor of one of the poorest of these
houses lay a boy of between ten and eleven years of age. He was quite
alone in the room, but that fact did not at all insure his being quiet.
All kinds of sounds came to him--sounds from the street, sounds from
below stairs, sounds from overhead. There were shrieking voices and ugly
laughter, and now and then there were shrill screams. The child was
accustomed to these things, however, and it is doubtful whether he heard
them.

He was a sad-looking little fellow, with that deadly white complexion
which children who never go into the fresh air possess. His face,
however, was neither discontented nor unhappy. He lay very still, with
patient eyes, quite touching in their absolute submission. Had any one
looked hard at little Giles they would have noticed something else on
his face--it was a listening look. The sounds all around did not
discompose him, for his eyes showed that he was waiting for something.
It came. Over and above the discord a Voice filled the air. Nine times
it repeated itself, slowly, solemnly, with deep vibrations. It was "Big
Ben" proclaiming the hour. The boy had heard the chimes which preceded
the hour; they were beautiful, of course, but it was the voice of Big
Ben himself that fascinated him.

"Ain't he a real beauty to-night?" thought the child. "How I wishes as
Sue 'ud hear him talk like that! Sometimes he's more weakly in his
throat, poor fellow! but to-night he's in grand voice."

The discord, which for one brief moment was interrupted for the child by
the beautiful, harmonious notes, continued in more deafening fashion
than ever. Children cried; women scolded; men cursed and swore. In the
midst of the din the room door was opened and a girl entered.

"Sue!" cried Giles.

"Yes," answered Sue, putting down her basket as she spoke. "I'm a bit
late; there wor a crowd in the street, and I went to hear him. He wor
grand."

"Oh, worn't he?" said Giles. "I never did know him to be in such
beautiful voice."

Sue came up and stared at the small boy. Her good-natured but somewhat
common type of face was a great contrast to his.

"Whatever are you talking about?" she said. "You didn't hear him; you
can't move, poor Giles!"

"But I did hear him," replied the boy. "I feared as I'd get off to
sleep, but I didn't. I never did hear Big Ben in such voice--he gave out
his text as clear as could be."

"Lor', Giles!" exclaimed Sue, "I didn't mean that stupid clock; I means
Father John. I squeezed up as close as possible to him, and I never
missed a word as fell from his lips. Peter Harris were there too. I
wonder how he felt. Bad, I 'spect, when he remembers the way he treated
poor Connie. And oh, Giles! what do yer think? The preacher spoke to him
jest as clear as clear could be, and he called him by his name--Peter.
'Tell His disciples and Peter,' Father John cried, and I could feel
Peter Harris jump ahind me."

"Wor that his text, Sue?"

"Yes, all about Peter. It wor wonnerful."

"Well, my text were, 'No more pain,'" said the boy. "I ache bad nearly
always, but Big Ben said, 'No more pain,' as plain as he could speak,
poor old fellow! It was nine times he said it. It were werry
comforting."

Sue made no reply. She was accustomed to that sort of remark from Giles.
She busied herself putting the kettle on the fire to boil, and then
cleaned a little frying-pan which by-and-by was to toast a herring for
Giles's supper and her own.

"Look what I brought yer," she said to the boy. "It were turning a bit,
Tom Watkins said, and he gave it me for a ha'penny, but I guess frying
and a good dash of salt 'ull make it taste fine. When the kettle boils
I'll pour out your tea; you must want it werry bad."

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't," answered Giles. "It's 'No more pain' I'm
thinking of. Sue, did you never consider that maybe ef we're good and
patient Lord Christ 'ull take us to 'eaven any day?"

"No," answered Sue; "I'm too busy." She stood for a minute reflecting.
"And I don't want to go to 'eaven yet," she continued; "I want to stay
to look after you."

Giles smiled. "It's beautiful in 'eaven," he said. "I'd like to go, but
I wouldn't like to leave you, Sue."

"Take your tea now, there's a good fellow," answered Sue, who was
nothing if not matter-of-fact. "Aye, dear!" she continued as she poured
it out and then waited for Giles to raise the cup to his lips, "Peter
Harris do look bad. I guess he's sorry he was so rough on Connie. But
now let's finish our supper, and I'll prepare yer for bed, Giles, for
I'm desp'rate tired."




CHAPTER II.

A SERVANT OF GOD.


John Atkins, the street preacher, was a little man who led a wonderful
life. He was far better educated than most people of his station, and in
addition his mind was tender in feeling and very sensitive and loving.
He regarded everybody as his brothers and sisters, and in especial he
took to his heart all sorrowful people. He never grumbled or repined,
but he looked upon his life as a pilgrimage to a better country, and did
not, therefore, greatly trouble if things were not quite smooth for him.
This little man had a very wide circle of friends. The fact is, he had
more power of keeping peace and order in the very poor part of London,
back of Westminster, where he lived, than had any dignitary of the
Church, any rector, any curate, or any minister, be he of what
persuasion he might. Father John was very humble about himself. Indeed,
one secret of his success lay in the fact that he never thought of
himself at all.

Having preached on this Saturday evening, as was his wont, to a larger
crowd than usual, he went home. As he walked a passer-by could have seen
that he was lame; he used a crutch. With the winter rain beating on him
he looked insignificant. Presently he found the house where he had a
room, went up the stairs, and entered, opening the door with a
latch-key. A fire was burning here, and a small paraffin lamp with a red
shade over it cast a warm glow over the little place. The moment the
light fell upon Father John his insignificance vanished. That was a
grand head and face which rose above the crippled body. The head was
high and splendidly proportioned. It was crowned with a wealth of soft
brown hair, which fell low on the shoulders. The forehead was lofty,
straight, and full; the mouth rather compressed, with firm lines round
it; the eyes were very deep set--they were rather light gray in color,
but the pupils were unusually large. The pupils and the peculiar
expression of the eyes gave them a wonderful power. They could speak
when every other feature in the face was quiet.

"I don't like them--I dread them," said Peter Harris on one occasion.
"Aye, but don't I love 'em just!" remarked little Giles.

Giles and Sue were special friends of John Atkins. They had, in fact,
been left in his care by their mother three years before this story
begins. This was the way they had first learned to know Father John.

The man had a sort of instinct for finding out when people were in
trouble and when they specially needed him. There was a poor woman lying
on her dying bed, and a boy and a girl were kneeling close to her.

"Keep a good heart up, Giles," she said to the boy. "I know I'm goin' to
leave yer, and you're as lame as lame can be, but then there's Sue. Sue
has a deal o' gumption for such a young un. Sue won't let yer want,
Giles, lad; you need never go to the workhouse while Sue's alive."

"No, that he needn't, mother," answered Sue.

"Can't yer get back on to yer sofa, Giles?" she added, turning to the
boy. "You'll break your back kneeling by mother all this time."

"No, I won't; I'd rather stay," answered the boy. His eyes were full of
light; he kept on stroking his mother's hand.

"Go on, mother," he said. "Tell us more. You're goin' to 'eaven, and
you'll see father." A sob strangled his voice for a minute.

"Yes, I'll see my good 'usband--that is, I hope so; I can but trust--I
allus have trusted, though often, ef I may say the truth, I couldn't
tell what I were a-trusting to. Somehow, whatever folks say, there _is_
a Providence."

"Oh, mother!" said Giles, "God is so beautiful--when you see father
again you'll know that."

"Mother," interrupted Sue, "does yer think as Providence 'ull get me
constant work at the sewing, enough to keep Giles and me?"

"I dunno, Sue," answered the woman. "I've trusted a good bit all my
life, and more specially since your father was took, and somehow we
haven't quite starved. Happen it'll be the same with Giles and you."

The boy sighed. His back was aching terribly. His heart was breaking at
the thought of losing his mother; he struggled to continue kneeling by
the bedside, but each moment the effort became greater.

The children were kneeling so when a quick, light step was heard on the
stairs, and a little man entered. It was too dark in the room for the
children to see his face; they heard, however, a very pleasant voice. It
said in cheerful tones:

"Why haven't you fire here, and a candle? Can I help you?"

"There ain't much candle left," answered Giles.

"And mother's dying," continued Sue. "She don't mind the dark--do yer,
mother?"

The little man made no reply in words, but taking some matches from his
pocket, and also a candle, he struck a light. He placed the candle in a
sconce on the wall, and then turned to the three.

"Be yer a parson?" asked the woman.

"I am a servant of God," answered Atkins.

"I'm real glad as you're a parson," she answered; "you can make it all
right between Almighty God and me."

"You are mistaken; I can't do that. That is Jesus Christ's work. But I
will pray with you--let me hold your hand, and we will pray together."

Then and there in the dismal attic Father John spoke out his heart in
the following simple words. Even Sue never forgot those words to the
latest day she lived:

"Lord God Almighty, look down upon this dying woman. Thy Son died for
her and she knows it not. Lord, she is in great darkness, and she is so
near death that she has no time to learn the truth in its fullness; but
Thou who art in the light can show some of Thy light to her. Now, in her
dying hour, reveal to her Thyself."

The dying woman fixed her glittering eyes on the strange man. When he
ceased speaking she smiled; then she said, slowly:

"I allus felt that I could trust in Providence."

She never spoke after that, and half an hour afterwards she died.

This was the beginning of Father John's friendship with Giles and Sue.

The next day Sue, by dint of many and anxious inquiries, found him out,
and put her queer little unkempt head into his room.

"Ef yer please, parson, may I speak to yer 'bout Giles and me?"

"Certainly, my little girl. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

"Parson," said Sue, with much entreaty in her voice and many a pucker on
her brow, "what I wants to say is a good deal. I wants ter take care o'
Giles, to keep up the bit o' home and the bit o' victual. It 'ud kill
Giles ef he wor to be took to the work'us; and I promised mother as I'd
keep 'im. Mother wor allers a-trustin', and she trusted Giles ter me."

Here Sue's voice broke off into a sob, and she put up her dirty apron to
her eyes.

"Don't cry, my dear," answered Atkins kindly; "you must not break your
word to your mother. Will it cost you so much money to keep yourself and
Giles in that little attic?"

"It ain't that," said she, proudly. "It ain't a bit as I can't work, fur
I can, real smart at 'chinery needlework. I gets plenty to do, too, but
that 'ere landlady, she ain't a bit like mother; she'd trusten nobody,
and she up this morning, and mother scarce cold, and says as she'd not
let her room to Giles and me 'cept we could get some un to go security
fur the rent; and we has no un as 'ud go security, so we must go away
the day as mother is buried, and Giles must go to the work'us; and it
'ull kill Giles, and mother won't trust me no more."

"Don't think that, my child; nothing can shake your mother's trust where
God has taken her now. But do you want me to help you?"

Sue found the color mounting to her little, weather-beaten face. A fear
suddenly occurred to her that she had been audacious--that this man was
a stranger, that her request was too great for her to ask. But something
in the kindness of the eyes looking straight into hers brought sudden
sunshine to her heart and courage to her resolve. With a burst, one word
toppling over the other, out came the whole truth:

"Please, sir--please, sir, I thought as you might go security fur Giles
and me. We'd pay real honest. Oh, sir, will you, jest because mother did
trusten so werry much?"

"I will, my child, and with all the heart in the world. Come home with
me now, and I will arrange the whole matter with your landlady."




CHAPTER III.

GOOD SECURITY.


John Atkins was always wont to speak of Sue and Giles as among the
successes of his life. This was not the first time he had gone security
for his poor, and many of his poor had decamped, leaving the burden of
their unpaid rent on him. He never murmured when such failures came to
him. He was just a trifle more particular in looking not so much into
the merits as the necessities of the next case that came to his
knowledge. But no more, than if all his flock had been honest as the
day, did he refuse his aid. This may have been a weakness on the man's
part; very likely, for he was the sort of man whom all sensible and
long-headed people would have spoken about as a visionary, an
enthusiast, a believer in doing to others as he would be done by--a
person, in short, without a grain of everyday sense to guide him. Atkins
would smile when such people lectured him on what they deemed his folly.

Nevertheless, though he took failure with all resignation, success, when
it came to him, was stimulating, and Giles and Sue he classed among his
successes.

The mother died and was buried, but the children did not leave their
attic, and Sue, brave little bread-winner, managed not only to pay the
rent but to keep the gaunt wolf of hunger from the door. Sue worked as a
machinist for a large City house.

Every day she rose with the dawn, made the room as tidy as she could for
Giles, and then started for her long walk to the neighborhood of
Cheapside. In a room with sixty other girls Sue worked at the
sewing-machine from morning till night. It was hard labor, as she had to
work with her feet as well as her hands, producing slop clothing at the
rate of a yard a minute. Never for an instant might her eyes wander from
the seam; and all this severe work was done in the midst of an
ear-splitting clatter, which alone would have worn out a person not
thoroughly accustomed to it.

But Sue was not unhappy. For three years now she had borne without
breaking down this tremendous strain on her health. The thought that she
was keeping Giles in the old attic made her bright and happy, and her
shrill young voice rose high and merry above those of her companions.
No; Sue, busy and honest, was not unhappy. But her fate was a far less
hard one than Giles's.

Giles had not always been lame. When first his mother held him in her
arms he was both straight and beautiful. Though born of poor parents and
in London, he possessed a health and vigor seldom bestowed upon such
children. In those days his father was alive, and earning good wages as
a fireman in the London Fire Brigade. There was a comfortable home for
both Sue and Giles, and Giles was the very light and sunshine of his
father's and mother's life. To his father he had been a special source
of pride and rejoicing. His beauty alone would have made him so. Sue was
essentially an everyday child, but Giles had a clear complexion,
dark-blue eyes, and curling hair. Giles as a baby and a little child was
very beautiful. As his poor, feeble-looking mother carried him
about--for she was poor and feeble-looking even in her palmy
days--people used to turn and gaze after the lovely boy. The mother
loved him passionately, but to the father he was as the apple of his
eye.

Giles's father had married a wife some degrees below him both
intellectually and socially. She was a hard-working, honest, and
well-meaning soul, but she was not her husband's equal. He was a man
with great force of character, great bravery, great powers of endurance.
Before he had joined the Fire Brigade he had been a sailor, and many
tales did he tell to his little Giles of his adventures on the sea. Sue
and her mother used to find these stories dull, but to Giles they seemed
as necessary as the air he breathed. He used to watch patiently for
hours for the rare moments when his father was off duty, and then beg
for the food which his keen mental appetite craved for. Mason could both
read and write, and he began to teach his little son. This state of
things continued until Giles was seven years old. Then there came a
dreadful black-letter day for the child; for the father, the end of
life.

Every event of that torturing day was ever after engraved on the little
boy's memory. He and his father, both in high spirits, started off for
their last walk together. Giles used to make it a practice to accompany
his father part of the way to his station, trotting back afterwards
safely and alone to his mother and sister. To-day their way lay through
Smithfield Market, and the boy, seeing the Martyrs' Monument in the
center of the market-place, asked his father eagerly about it.

"Look, father, look!" he said, pointing with his finger. "What is that?"

"That is the figure of an angel, lad. Do you see, it is pointing up to
heaven. Do you know why?"

"No, father; tell us."

"Long ago, my lad, there were a lot of brave people brought just there
where the angel stands; they were tied to stakes in the ground and set
fire to and burned--burned until they died."

"Burned, father?" asked little Giles in a voice of horror.

"Yes, boy. They were burned because they were so brave they would rather
be burned than deny the good God. They were called martyrs, and that
angel stands there now to remind people about them and to show how God
took them straight to heaven."

"I think they were grand," answered the boy, his eyes kindling. "Can't
people be like that now?"

"Any one who would rather die than neglect a duty has, to my mind, the
same spirit," answered the man. "But now, lad, run home, for I must be
off."

"Oh, father, you are going to that place where the wonderful new
machinery is, and you said I might look at it. May I come?"

The father hesitated, finally yielded, and the two went on together. But
together they were never to come back.

That very day, with the summer sun shining, and all the birds in the
country far away singing for joy, there came a message for the brave
father. He was suddenly, in the full prime of his manly vigor, to leave
off doing God's work down here, doubtless to take it up with nobler
powers above. A fireman literally works with his life in his hands. He
may have to resign it at any moment at the call of duty. This
trumpet-call, which he had never neglected, came now for Giles Mason.

A fire broke out in the house where little Giles watched with keen
intelligence the new machinery. The machinery was destroyed, the child
lamed for life, and the brave father, in trying to rescue him and
others, was so injured by falling stones and pieces of woodwork that he
only lived a few hours.

The two were laid side by side in the hospital to which they were
carried.

"Father," said the little one, nestling close to the injured and dying
man, "I think people _can_ be martyrs now!"

But the father was past words, though he heard the child, for he smiled
and pointed upwards. The smile and the action were so significant, and
reminded the child so exactly of the angel who guards the Martyrs'
Monument, that ever afterwards he associated his brave father with those
heroes and heroines of whom the sacred writer says that "the world is
not worthy."




CHAPTER IV.

SOLITARY HOURS.


Giles was kept in the hospital for many weeks, even months. All that
could be done was done for him; but the little, active feet were never
to walk again, and the spine was so injured that he could not even sit
upright. When all that could be done had been done and failed, the boy
was sent back to his broken-down and widowed mother.

Mrs. Mason had removed from the comfortable home where she lived during
her husband's lifetime to the attic in a back street of Westminster,
where she finally died. She took in washing for a livelihood, and Sue,
now twelve years old, was already an accomplished little machinist.[1]

They were both too busy to have time to grieve, and at night were too
utterly worn-out not to sleep soundly. They were kind to Giles lying on
his sick-bed; they both loved him dearly, but they neither saw, nor even
tried to understand, the hunger of grief and longing which filled his
poor little mind.

His terrible loss, his own most terrible injuries, had developed in the
boy all that sensitive nerve organism which can render life so miserable
to its possessor. To hear his beloved father's name mentioned was a
torture to him; and yet his mother and Sue spoke of it with what seemed
to the boy reckless indifference day after day. Two things, however,
comforted him--one the memory of the angel figure over the Martyrs'
Monument at Smithfield, the other the deep notes of Big Ben. His father,
too, had been a martyr, and that angel stood there to signify his
victory as well as the victory of those others who withstood the torture
by fire; and Big Ben, with its solemn, vibrating notes, seemed to his
vivid imagination like that same angel speaking.

Though an active, restless boy before his illness, he became now very
patient. He would lie on his back, not reading, for he had forgotten
what little his father taught him, but apparently lost in thought, from
morning to night. His mother was often obliged to leave him alone, but
he never murmured at his long, solitary hours; indeed, had there been
any one by to listen to all the words he said to himself at these times,
they would have believed that the boy enjoyed them.

Thus three years passed away. In those three years all the beauty had
left little Giles's face; all the brightness had fled from his eyes; he
was now a confirmed invalid, white and drawn and pinched. Then his poor,
tired-out mother died. She had worked uncomplainingly, but far beyond
her strength, until suddenly she sickened and in a few days was dead.
Giles, however, while losing a mother, had gained a friend. John Atkins
read the sensitive heart of the boy like a book. He came to see him
daily, and soon completed the reading-lessons which his father had
begun. As soon as the boy could read he was no longer unhappy. His sad
and troubled mind need no longer feed on itself; he read what wise and
great men thought, for Atkins supplied him with books. Atkins's books,
it is true, were mostly of a theological nature, but once he brought him
a battered Shakespeare; and Sue also, when cash was a little flush,
found an old volume of the _Arabian Nights_ on a book-stall. These two
latter treasures gave great food to the active imagination of little
Giles.

FOOTNOTE

[1] In July 1877 arrangements were made to provide for the families of
    firemen who were killed in the performance of their duty, but nothing
    was done for them before that date.




CHAPTER V.

EAGER WORDS.


When John Atkins was quite young he was well-to-do. His father and
mother had kept a good shop, and not only earned money for their needs
but were able to put by sufficient for a rainy day. John was always a
small and delicate child, and as he grew older he developed disease of
the spine, which not only gave him a deformed appearance but made him
slightly lame. Nevertheless, he was an eager little scholar, and his
father was able to send him to a good school. The boy worked hard, and
eagerly read and learned all that came in his way.

Thus life was rather pleasant than otherwise with John Atkins up to his
fifteenth year, but about then there came misfortunes. The investment
into which his father had put all his hard-won earnings was worthless;
the money was lost. This was bad enough, but there was worse to follow.
Not only had the money disappeared, but the poor man's heart was broken.
He ceased to attend to his business; his customers left him to go
elsewhere; his wife died suddenly, and he himself quickly followed her
to the grave.

After these misfortunes John Atkins had a bad illness himself. He grew
better after a time, took to cobbling as a trade, and earned enough to
support himself. How he came to take up street preaching, and in
consequence to be much beloved by his neighbors, happened simply enough.

On a certain Sunday evening he was walking home from the church where he
attended, his heart all aglow with the passionate words of the preacher
he had been listening to. The preacher had made Bunyan the subject of
his discourse, and the author of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ was at that
time the hero of all heroes in the mind of Atkins. He was thinking of
his wonderful pilgrimage as he hurried home. He walked on. Suddenly,
turning a corner, he knocked up against a man, who, half-reeling, came
full-tilt against him.

"Aye, Peter," he said, knowing the man, and perceiving that he was far
too tipsy to get to his home with safety, "I'll just walk home with you,
mate. I've got an apple in my pocket for the little wench."

The man made no objection, and they walked on. At the next corner they
saw a crowd, all listening eagerly to the words of a large, red-faced
man who, mounted on a chair, addressed them. On the burning, glowing
heart of John Atkins fell the following terrible words:

"For there be no God, and there be nothing before us but to die as the
beasts die. Let us get our fill of pleasure and the like of that,
neighbors, for there ain't nothing beyond the grave."

"It's a lie!" roared Atkins.

The words had stung him like so many fiery serpents. He rushed into the
midst of the crowd; he forgot Peter Harris; he sprang on to the chair
which the other man in his astonishment had vacated, and poured out a
whole string of eager, passionate words. At that moment he discovered
that he had a wonderful gift. There was the message in his heart which
God had put there, and he was able to deliver it. His words were
powerful. The crowd, who had listened without any great excitement to
the unbeliever, came close now to the man of God, applauding him loudly.
Atkins spoke of the Fatherhood of God and of His love.

"Ain't that other a coward?" said two or three rough voices when Atkins
ceased to speak. "And he comes here talking them lies every Sunday
night," said one poor woman. "Come you again, master, and tell us the
blessed truth."

This decided Atkins. He went to his parish clergyman, an overworked and
badly paid man, and told him the incident. He also spoke of his own
resolve. He would go to these sheep who acknowledged no Shepherd, and
tell them as best he could of a Father, a Home, a Hope. The clergyman
could not but accept the services of this fervent city missionary.

"Get them to church if you can," he said.

"Aye, if I can," answered Atkins; "but I will compel them to enter the
Church above--that is the main thing."

Soon he began to know almost all the poor folks who crowded to hear him.
In their troubles he was with them; when joy came he heard first about
it, and rejoiced most of all; and many a poor face of a tired woman or
worn-out man, or even a little child, looking into his, grew brighter in
the presence of death.




CHAPTER VI.

DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK.


Connie was a very pretty girl. She was between thirteen and fourteen
years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. Her hair was of a
pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink
and white--almost like a china figure, Sue said; Giles compared her to
an angel. Connie was in the same trade that Sue earned her bread by; she
also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the City. All day long she
worked at the sewing-machine, going home with Sue night after night,
glad of Sue's sturdy support, for Connie was much more timid than her
companion.

Connie was the apple of Harris's eye, his only child. He did everything
he could for her; he lived for her. If any one could make him good,
Connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible moments
when he returned home, having taken more than was good for him. At these
times she would slink away to visit Giles and Sue, and on more than one
occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than return to her
angry father. Some months, however, before this story begins, a terrible
misfortune had come to Peter Harris. He had come home on a certain
evening worse than usual from the effects of drink. Connie happened to
be in. She had dressed herself with her usual exquisite neatness. She
always kept the place ship-shape. The hearth was always tidily swept.
She managed her father's earnings, which were quite considerable, and
the wretched man could have had good food and a comfortable home, and
been happy as the day was long, if only the craze for drink had not
seized him.

Connie was very fond of finery, and she was now trimming a pretty hat to
wear on the following Sunday. Not long ago she had made a new friend, a
girl at the warehouse of the name of Agnes Coppenger. Agnes was older
than Connie. She was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for
beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty Connie
with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having
such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of
admiration. She therefore began to make much of Connie. She praised her
beauty, and invited her to her own home. There Connie made companions
who were not nearly such desirable ones as Sue and Giles.

She began to neglect Sue and Giles, and to spend more and more of her
time with Agnes.

On a certain day when the two girls were working over their
sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great
warehouse, Agnes turned to Connie.

"When we go out at morning break I 'ave a word to say to yer."

Connie's eyes brightened.

"You walk with me," whispered Agnes again.

An overseer came round. Talking was forbidden in the great room, and the
girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam
after long seam of delicate stitches. The fluff from the work seemed to
smother Connie that morning. She had inherited her mother's delicacy.
She coughed once or twice. There was a longing within her to get away
from this dismal, this unhealthy life. She felt somehow, down deep in
her heart, that she was meant for better things. The child was by nature
almost a poet. She could have worshiped a lovely flower. As to the
country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost
baffles description.

Now, Sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the
room, had none of these sensations. Provided that Sue could earn enough
money to keep Giles going, that was all she asked of life. She was as
matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she
had not got, it never once entered her head.

At twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. The machinists were
then turned out of the building. It did not matter what sort of day it
was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the
snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world,
out all the working women had to go. None could skulk behind; all had to
seek the open air.

Connie coughed now as the bitter blast blew against her cheeks.

"Isn't it cold?" she said.

She expected to see Agnes by her side, but it was Sue she addressed.

"I've got a penny for pease-pudding to-day," said Sue. "Will you come
and have a slice, Connie? Or do yer want somethin' better? Your father,
Peter Harris, can let yer have more than a penny for yer dinner."

"Oh, yes," answered Connie; "'tain't the money--I 'aven't got not a bit
of happetite, not for nothing; but I want to say a word to Agnes
Coppenger, and I don't see her."

"Here I be," said Agnes, coming up at that moment. "Come right along,
Connie; I've got a treat for yer."

The last words were uttered in a low whisper, and Sue, finding she was
not wanted, went off in another direction. She gave little sighs as she
did so. What was wrong with pretty Connie, and why did she not go with
her? It had been her custom to slip her hand inside Sue's sturdy arm.
During the half-hour interval, the girls used to repair together to the
nearest cheap restaurant, there to secure what nourishing food their
means permitted. They used to chatter to one another, exchanging full
confidences, and loving each other very much.

But for some time now Connie had only thought of Agnes Coppenger, and
Sue felt out in the cold.

"Can't be helped," she said to herself; "but if I am not mistook, Agnes
is a bad un, and the less poor Connie sees of her the better."

Sue entered the restaurant, which was now packed full of factory girls,
and she asked eagerly for her penn'orth of pease-pudding.

Meanwhile Connie and Agnes were very differently employed. When the two
girls found themselves alone, Agnes looked full at Connie and said:

"I'm going to treat yer."

"Oh, no, you ain't," said Connie, who was proud enough in her way.

"Yes, but I be," said Agnes; "I ha' lots o' money, bless yer! Here,
we'll come in here."

An A.B.C. shop stood invitingly open just across the road. Connie had
always looked at these places of refreshment with open-eyed admiration,
and with the sort of sensation which one would have if one stood at the
gates of Paradise. To enter any place so gorgeous as an A.B.C., to be
able to sit down and have one's tea or coffee or any other refreshment
at one of those little white marble tables, seemed to her a degree of
refinement scarcely to be thought about. The A.B.C. was a sort of
forbidden fruit to Connie, but Agnes had been there before, and Agnes
had described the delight of the place.

"The quality come in 'ere," said Agnes, "an' they horders all sorts o'
things, from mutton-chops to poached heggs. I am goin' in to-day, and so
be you."

"Oh, no," said Connie, "you can't afford it."

"That's my lookout," answered Agnes. "I've half-a-crown in my pocket,
and ef I choose to have a good filling meal, and ef I choose that you
shall have one too, why, that is my lookout."

As Agnes spoke she pulled her companion through the swinging door, and a
minute later the two young girls had a little table between them, not
far from the door. Agnes called in a lofty voice to one of the
waitresses.

"Coffee for two," she said, "and rolls and butter and poached heggs; and
see as the heggs is well done, and the toast buttered fine and thick.
Now then, look spruce, won't yer?"

The waitress went off to attend to Agnes's requirements. Agnes sat back
in her chair with a sort of lofty, fine-lady air which greatly impressed
poor Connie. By-and-by the coffee, the rolls and butter, and the poached
eggs appeared. A little slip of paper with the price of the meal was
laid close to Agnes's plate, and she proceeded to help her companion to
the good viands.

"It's this sort of meal you want hevery day," she said. "Now then, eat
as hard as ever you can, and while you're eating let me talk, for
there's a deal to say, and we must be back in that factory afore we can
half do justice to our wittles."

Connie sipped her coffee, and looked hard at her companion.

"What is it?" she asked suddenly. "What's all the fuss, Agnes? Why be
you so chuff to poor Sue, and whatever 'ave you got to say?"

"This," said Agnes. "You're sick o' machine-work, ain't you?"

"Oh, that I be!" said Connie, stretching her arms a little, and
suppressing a yawn. "It seems to get on my narves, like. I am that
miserable when I'm turning that horrid handle and pressing that treadle
up and down, up and down, as no words can say. I 'spect it's the hair so
full of fluff an' things, too; some'ow I lose my happetite for my
or'nary feed when I'm working at that 'orrid machine."

"I don't feel it that way," said Agnes in a lofty tone. "But then, _I_
am wery strong. I can heat like anything, whatever I'm a-doing of.
There, Connie; don't waste the good food. Drink up yer corffee, and
don't lose a scrap o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful
waste. Well, now, let me speak. I know quite a different sort o' work
that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening I
can tell yer all about it."

"What sort of work?" asked Connie.

"Beautiful, refined--the sort as you love. But I am not going to tell
yer ef yer give me away."

"What do you mean by that, Agnes?"

"I means wot I say--I'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me."

"Yer mean that I'm to spend all the evening with yer?" asked Connie.

"Yes--that's about it. _You_ are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk.
Why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all
alone by yer lonesome? You give me a promise. And now I must pay hup,
and we'll be off."

"I'll come, o' course," said Connie after brief reflection. "Why
shouldn't I?" she added. "There's naught to keep me to home."

The girls left the A.B.C. shop and returned to their work.

Whir! whir! went the big machines. The young heads were bent over their
accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which Connie
so often looked at went on their way. Slowly--very slowly--the time
sped. Would that long day ever come to an end?

The machinists' hours were from eight o'clock in the morning to six in
the evening. Sometimes, when there were extra lots of ready-made clothes
to be produced, they were kept till seven or even eight o'clock. But for
this extra work there was a small extra pay, so that few of them really
minded. But Connie dreaded extra hours extremely. She was not really
dependent on the work, although Peter would have been very angry with
his girl had she idled her time. She herself, too, preferred doing this
to doing nothing. But to-night, of all nights, she was most impatient to
get away with Agnes in order to discover what that fascinating young
person's secret was.

She looked impatiently at the clock; so much so that Agnes herself, as
she watched her eyes, chuckled now and then.

"She'll be an easy prey," thought Agnes Coppenger. "I'll soon get 'er
into my power."

At six o'clock there was no further delay; no extra work was required,
and the machinists poured into the sloppy, dark, and dreary streets.

"Come along now, quickly," said Agnes. "Don't wait for Sue; Sue has
nothing to do with you from this time out."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Connie. "But I don't want to give up Sue and
Giles. You ha' never seen little Giles Mason?"

"No," replied Agnes, "and don't want to. Wot be Giles to me?"

"Oh," said Connie, "ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. He's the
wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with
'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he
have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?"

"I fond o' poetry?" almost screamed Agnes. "Not I! That is, I never
heerd it--don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry.
I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart
'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing
about it. But you, now--you never think on yer clothes."

"Oh yes, but I do," said Connie; "and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress
now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink
he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop."

"Lor', now, did he?" said Agnes. "Wot sort be it, Connie?"

"Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish."

"You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said Agnes. "You've the
face of a lydy--that any one can see."

"Have I?" said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her
smooth little cheeks.

"Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. Now,
look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus
comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery
near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?"

"'Tain't likely," replied Connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time
for 'im to go to bed."

"Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down
Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and
changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and
down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below
stairs."

This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The
omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached
her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas
and looked around her.

The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not
bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the
sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond.
Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new
costume which her father had given her.

She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed
her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden
hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to
match, and--little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which
simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of
life--she ran quickly downstairs.

A young man of the name of Anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was
passing by. He belonged to the Fire Brigade, and was one of the best and
bravest firemen in London. He had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and
a very kind face. It looked almost as refined as Connie's own.

Anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. He felt half-inclined
to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute Agnes gripped her
arm.

"My word, ain't you fine!" said that young lady. "You _be_ a gel to be
proud of! Won't yer do fine, jest! Now then, come along, and let's be
quick."

Connie followed her companion. They went down several side-streets, and
took several short cuts. They passed through the roughest and worst part
of the purlieus at the back of Westminster. At last they entered a
broader thoroughfare, and there Agnes stopped.

"Why, yer never be livin' here?" asked Connie.

"No, I bean't. You'll come to my 'ome afterwards. I want to take yer to
see a lydy as maybe'll take a fancy to yer."

"Oh!" said Connie, feeling both excited and full of wonder.

The girls entered a side passage, and presently Connie, to her
astonishment, found herself going upwards--up and up and up--in a lift.
The lift went up as far as it would go. The girls got out. Agnes went
first, and Connie followed. They walked down the passage, and Agnes gave
a very neat double knock on the door, which looked like an ordinary
front door to a house.

The door was opened by a woman rather loudly dressed, but with a
handsome face.

"How do you do, Mrs. Warren?" said Agnes. "I ha' brought the young lydy
I spoke to yer about. Shall us both come in?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mrs. Warren.

She stood aside, and Connie, still following her companion, found
herself at the other side of the neat door. The place inside was bright
with electric light, and the stout, showily dressed lady, going first,
conducted the girls into a room which Agnes afterwards spoke of as the
dining-room. The lady sat down in a very comfortable arm-chair, crossed
her legs, and desired Connie to come forward and show herself.

"Take off yer 'at," she said.

Connie did so.

"You're rather pretty."

Connie was silent.

"I want," said the stout woman, "a pretty gel, something like you, to
come and sit with me from ten to two o'clock hevery day. Yer dooties'll
be quite light, and I'll give yer lots o' pretty clothes and good
wages."

"But what'll I have to do?" asked Connie.

"Jest to sit with me an' keep me company; I'm lonesome here all by
myself."

Connie looked puzzled.

"You ask wot wages yer'll get," said Agnes, poking Connie on the arm.
Connie's blue eyes looked up. The showy lady was gazing at her very
intently.

"I'll give yer five shillin's a week," she said, "and yer keep, and some
carst-off clothes--my own--now and again; and ef that bean't a bargain,
I don't know wot be."

Connie was silent.

"You 'ad best close with it," said Agnes. "It's a charnce once in a
'undred. Yer'll be very 'appy with Mrs. Warren--her's a real lydy."

"Yes, that I be," said Mrs. Warren. "I come of a very hold family. My
ancestors come hover with William the Conqueror."

Connie did not seem impressed by this fact.

"Will yer come or will yer not?" said Mrs. Warren. "I'll take yer
jaunts, too--I forgot to mention that. Often on a fine Saturday, you an'
me--we'll go to the country together. You don't know 'ow fine that 'ull
be. We'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. Did yer never see
the country?"

"No," said Connie, in a slow voice, "but I ha' dreamt of it."

"She's the sort, ma'am," interrupted Agnes, "wot dreams the queerest
things. She's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. She's not
matter-o'-fack like me."

"Jest the sort I want," said Mrs. Warren. "I--I loves poetry. You shall
read it aloud to me, my gel--or, better still, I'll read it to you. An'
as to flowers--why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em
a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. We'll go to the country next
Saturday. There, now--ain't that fine?"

Connie looked puzzled. There certainly was a great attraction at the
thought of going into the country. She hated the machine-work. But, all
the same, somehow or other she did not like Mrs. Warren.

"I'll think o' it and let yer know," she said.

But when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady
changed her manner.

"There's no thinking now," she said. "You're 'ere, and yer'll stay. You
go out arter you ha' been at my house? You refuse my goodness? Not a bit
o' it! Yer'll stay."

"Oh, yes, Connie," said Agnes in a soothing tone.

"But I don't want to stay," said Connie, now thoroughly frightened. "I
want to go--and to go at once. Let me go, ma'am; I--I don't like yer!"

Poor Connie made a rush for the door, but Agnes flew after her and
clasped her round the waist.

"Yer _be_ a silly!" she said. "Yer jest stay with her for one week."

"But I--I must go and tell father," said poor Connie.

"You needn't--I'll go an' tell him. Don't yer get into such a fright.
Don't, for goodness' sake! Why, think of five shillin's a week, and
jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to
yer, and hall the rest!"

"I has most select poetry here," said Mrs. Warren. "Did yer never yere
of a man called Tennyson? An' did yer never read that most touching
story of the consumptive gel called the 'May Queen'? 'Ef ye're wakin'
call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' I'll read yer that. It's
the most beauteous thing."

"It sounds lovely," said Connie.

She was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen
fancy and rich imagination.

"And you 'ates the machines," said Agnes.

"Oh yes, I 'ates the machines," cried Connie. Then she added after a
pause: "I'm 'ere, and I'll stay for one week. But I must go back first
to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. You'd best let me
go, ma'am; I won't be long away."

"But I can't do that," said Mrs. Warren; "it's a sight too late for a
young, purty gel like you to be out. Agnes, now, can go and tell yer
father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.--Agnes, yer'll do
that, won't yer?"

"Yes--that I will."

"They'll never let me stay," said Connie, reflecting on this fact with
some satisfaction.

"We won't ax him, my dear," said Mrs. Warren.

"I must go, really, now," said Agnes. "You're all right, Connie; you're
made. You'll be a fine lydy from this day out. And I'll come and see
yer.--W'en may I come, Mrs. Warren?"

"To-morrer evenin'," said Mrs. Warren. "You and Connie may have tea
together to-morrer evenin', for I'm goin' out with some friends to the
thayertre."

Poor Connie never quite knew how it happened, but somehow she found
herself as wax in the strong hands of Mrs. Warren. Connie, it is true,
gave a frightened cry when she heard Agnes shut the hall door behind
her, and she felt positive that she had done exceedingly wrong. But Mrs.
Warren really seemed kind, although Connie could not but wish that she
was not quite so stout, and that her face was not of such an ugly brick
red.

She gave the girl a nice supper, and talked to her all the time about
the lovely life she would have there.

"Ef I takes to yer I'll maybe hadopt yer as my own daughter, my dear,"
she said. "You're a wery purty gel. And may I ax how old you are, my
love?"

Connie answered that she was fourteen, and Mrs. Warren remarked that she
was small for her age and looked younger. She showed the girl her own
smart clothing, and tried the effect of her bit of fur round Connie's
delicate throat.

"There," she said; "you can keep it. It's only rabbit; I can't afford no
dearer. But yer'll look real foine in it when we goes out for our
constooshionul to-morrow morning."

Connie was really touched and delighted with the present of the fur. She
got very sleepy, too, after supper--more sleepy than she had ever felt
in her life--and when Mrs. Warren suggested that her new little handmaid
should retire early to bed, the girl was only too glad to obey.




CHAPTER VII.

SHOPPING.


Connie slept without dreams that night, and in the morning awoke with a
start. What was the matter? Was she late? It was dreadful to be late at
the doors of that cruel factory. Those who were late were docked of
their pay.

Peter Harris was always very angry when his daughter did not bring in
her full earnings on Saturday night. Connie cried out, "Father, father!"
and then sat up in bed and pushed her golden hair back from her little
face. What was the matter? Where was she? Why, what a pretty room! There
was scarcely any light yet, and she could not see the different articles
of furniture very distinctly, but it certainly seemed to her that she
was in a most elegant apartment. Her room at home was--oh, so bare! just
a very poor trundle-bed, and a little deal chest of drawers with a tiny
looking-glass on top, and one broken chair to stand by her bedside. This
was all.

But her present room had a carpet on the floor, and there were
pictures hanging on the walls, and there were curtains to the
windows, and the little bed on which she lay was covered with a gay
counterpane--soft--almost as soft as silk.

Where could she be? It took her almost a minute to get back the memory
of last night. Then she shuddered with the most curious feeling of
mingled ecstasy and pain. She was not going to the factory to-day. She
was not going to work at that horrid sewing-machine. She was not to meet
Sue. She was not to be choked by the horrid air. She, Connie, had got a
new situation, and Mrs. Warren was a very nice woman, although she was
so fat and her dress was so loud that even Connie's untrained taste
could not approve of it.

Just then a voice called to her:

"Get up, my dear; I'll have a cosy breakfast ready for yer by the time
yer've put yourself tidily into yer clothes."

"Yes," thought Connie to herself, "I've done well to come. Agnes is
right. I wonder what she'll say when she comes to tea this evening. I
wonder if she met father. I do 'ope as father won't find me. I'd real
like to stay on here for a bit; it's much, much nicer than the cruel
sort of life I 'ave to home."

Connie dressed by the light which was now coming in more strongly
through the window. Mrs. Warren pushed a can of hot water inside the
door, and the girl washed with a strange, unwonted sense of luxury. She
had no dress but the dark-blue, and she was therefore forced to put it
on.

When she had completed her toilet she entered the sitting-room. Mrs.
Warren, in her morning _déshabille_, looked a more unpleasing object
than ever. Her hair was in tight curl-papers, and she wore a very loose
and very dirty dressing-gown, which was made of a sort of pattern
chintz, and gave her the effect of being a huge pyramid of coarse, faded
flowers.

There was coffee, however, which smelled very good, on the hearth, and
there was some toast and bacon, and some bread, butter, and jam. Connie
and Mrs. Warren made a good meal, and then Mrs. Warren began to talk of
the day's programme.

"I have a lot of shopping to do this morning," she said, "and we'll go
out not later than ten o'clock sharp. It's wonderful wot a lot o' things
I has to buy. There's sales on now, too, and we'll go to some of 'em.
Maybe I'll get yer a bit o' ribbon--you're fond o' blue ribbon, I take
it. Well, maybe I'll get it for yer--there's no saying. Anyhow, we'll
walk down the streets, and wot shops we don't go into we'll press our
noses against the panes o' glass and stare in. Now then, my dear, yer
don't s'pose that I'll allow you to come out walking with the likes o'
me with yer 'air down like that."

"Why, 'ow is it to be done?" said Connie. "I take it that it's
beautiful; I ha' done it more tidy than ever."

"But I don't want it tidy. Now then, you set down yere close to the
fire, so that you can toast yer toes, and I'll see to yer 'air."

Connie was forced to obey; more and more was she wax in the hands of her
new employer. Mrs. Warren quickly took the hair-pins out of Connie's
thick plait. She let it fall down to her waist, and then she unplaited
it and brushed out the shining waves of lovely hair, and then said, with
a smile of satisfaction:

"Now, I guess there won't be anybody prettier than you to walk abroad
to-day."

"But I can't," said Connie--"I don't ever wear my 'air like that; it's
only young lydies as does that."

"Well, ain't you a lydy, and ain't I a lydy? You're going out with one,
and yer'll wear yer 'air as I please."

Connie shivered; but presently the little dark-blue cap was placed over
the masses of golden hair, the gray fur was fastened round the slender
throat, and Connie marched out with Mrs. Warren.

Mrs. Warren's own dress was in all respects the reverse of her pretty
young companion's. It consisted of a very voluminous silk cloak, which
was lined with fur, and which gave the already stout woman a most portly
appearance. On her head she wore a bonnet covered with artificial
flowers, and she enveloped her hands in an enormous muff.

"Now, off we go," said Mrs. Warren. "You'll enjoy yerself, my purty."

It is quite true that Connie did--at least, at first. This was the time
of day when, with the exception of Sundays, she was always buried from
view in the ugly warehouse. She was unaccustomed to the morning
sunshine, and she was certainly unaccustomed to the handsome streets
where Mrs. Warren conducted her.

They walked on, and soon found themselves in crowded thoroughfares. At
last they stopped before the doors of a great shop, into which crowds of
people were going.

"Oh, what a pretty girl!" said Connie to her companion.

A young girl, very like Connie herself--so like as to make the
resemblance almost extraordinary--was entering the shop, accompanied by
an old gentleman who was supporting himself by the aid of a gold-headed
stick. The girl also had golden hair. She was dressed in dark blue, and
had gray fur round her neck. But above the fur there peeped out a little
pale-blue handkerchief made of very soft silk.

"That's purty," whispered Mrs. Warren to Connie. "Yer'd like a
'andkercher like that--yer shall 'ave one. Get on in front o' me; you're
slimmer nor me; I want to push into the shop."

Connie obeyed. As she passed the fair young girl, the girl seemed to
notice the extraordinary likeness between them, for she turned and
looked at Connie and smiled. She also said something to her companion,
who also stared at the girl. But stout Mrs. Warren poked Connie from
behind, and she had to push forward, and presently found herself in the
shop.

There it seemed to her that Mrs. Warren did very little buying. It is
true she stopped at several counters, always choosing those which were
most surrounded by customers; it is true she pulled things about, poking
at the goods offered for sale, and making complaints about them, but
always keeping Connie well to the fore.

A delicate color had sprung into the girl's cheeks, and almost every one
turned to look at her. The shopmen turned; the shopgirls gazed; the
customers forgot what they wanted in their amazement at Connie's beauty.
Her hair, in especial, was the subject of universal admiration--its
thickness, its length, its marvelous color. The girl herself was quite
unconscious of the admiration which her appearance produced, but Mrs.
Warren knew well what a valuable acquisition she had made in little
Connie.

When they left the shop she seemed to be in high good-humor. But, lo and
behold! a change had taken place in the outside world. The sun, so
bright and glorious, had hidden himself behind a murky yellow fog, which
was coming up each moment thicker and thicker from the river.

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Warren.

"Oh dear!" cried Connie too. "We won't get lost, will us, ma'am?"

"Lost?" cried Mrs. Warren, with a sniff. "Now, I call this fog the most
beautiful fortunation thing that could have 'appened. We'll have a real
jolly morning now, Connie. You come along o' me. There, child--walk a
bit in front. Why, ye're a real, real beauty. I feel sort of ashamed to
be walkin' with yer. Let folks think that you're out with yer nurse, my
pretty. Yes, let 'em think that, and that she's screening yer from
misfortun' wid her own ample person."

Thus Connie walked for several hours that day. In and out of crowded
thoroughfares the two perambulated. Into shops they went, and out again
they came. Everywhere Connie went first, and Mrs. Warren followed very
close behind.

At last the good lady said that she had done her morning's shopping.
Connie could not well recall what she had bought, and the pair trudged
soberly home.

When they got there Mrs. Warren went straight to her own bedroom, and
Connie sat down by the fire, feeling quite tired with so much exercise.
Presently Mrs. Warren came out again. She had changed her dress, and had
put on an ample satin gown of black with broad yellow stripes. She was
in high good-humor, and going up to Connie, gave her a resounding smack
on the cheek.

"Now," she said, "yer won't think 'ard of poor Mammy Warren. See wot
I've gone an' got an' bought for yer."

Connie turned quickly. A soft little blue handkerchief, delicately
folded in tissue-paper, was laid on the table by the girl.

"Why--why--that ain't for me!" said Connie.

"Yes, but it be! Why shouldn't it be for you? I saw yer lookin' at that
purty young lydy who was as like yer as two peas. I watched 'ow yer
stared at the blue 'andkercher, and 'ow yer sort o' longed for it."

"But indeed--indeed I didn't."

"Anyhow, here's another, and yer can have it, and wear it peeping out
among yer fur. I take it that yer blue 'andkercher'll take the cake."

"Then you've bought it for me?" said Connie.

"Yus--didn't I zay so?"

"But I never seen yer do it," said Connie.

"Seen me do it?" said Mrs. Warren, her eyes flashing with anger. "You
was too much taken up with yer own conceits, my gel--hevery one staring
at yer, 'cos poor old Mammy Warren 'ad made yer so beautiful. But though
you was full to the brim o' yourself, I warn't so selfish; I were
thinkin' o' you--and yere's yer 'andkercher."

Connie took up the handkerchief slowly. Strange as it may seem, it gave
her no pleasure. She said, "Thank you, Mrs. Warren," in a subdued voice,
and took it into her little bedroom.

Connie felt that she did not particularly want to wear the handkerchief.
She did not know why, but a trouble, the first of the many troubles she
was to undergo in the terrible society of Mrs. Warren, came over her.
She went back again and sat down by the fire. During the greater part of
the afternoon the stout woman slept. Connie watched her furtively. A
strong desire to get up and run away seized her. Could she not get out
of that house and go back to Sue and Giles? How happy she would feel in
Giles's bare little room! How she would enjoy talking with the child!
With what wonder they would both listen to Big Ben as he spoke in that
voice of his the number of the hours! Giles would make up fairy-tales
for Connie to listen to. How Connie did love the "wonnerful" things he
said about the big "Woice"! One day it was cheerful, another day sad,
another day very encouraging, another day full of that noble influence
which the child himself so largely exercised. At all times it was an
angel voice, speaking to mankind from high above this sordid world.

It helped Giles, and it helped Connie too. She sat by the fire in this
well-furnished room and looked anxiously towards the door. Once she got
up on tiptoe. She had almost reached the door, but had not quite done
so, when Mrs. Warren turned, gave a loud snore, and opened her eyes. She
did not speak when she saw Connie, but her eyes seemed to say briefly,
"Well, don't you go any farther"; and Connie turned back into her small
bedroom.

Sharp at four o'clock Mrs. Warren started up.

"Now then," she said, "I'm goin' to get the tea ready."

"Can I help you, ma'am?" asked Connie. "Shall I make you some toast,
ma'am?"

"Toast?" cried Mrs. Warren. "Toast? Do you think I'd allow yer to spile
yer purty face with the fire beatin' on it? Not a bit o' it! You set
down there--it's a foine lydy you be, and I ha' to take care of yer."

"But why should yer do that, ma'am? I ain't put into the world to do
naught. I ha' always worked 'ard--father wanted me to."

"Eh?" said Mrs. Warren. "But I'm yer father and mother both now, and I
don't want yer to."

"Don't yer?" said Connie.

She sank down and folded her hands in her lap.

"I must do summut to whiten them 'ands o' yours," said Mrs. Warren; "and
I'm goin' to get yer real purty stockings an' boots to wear. You must
look the real lydy--a real lydy wears neat boots and good gloves."

"But I ain't a lydy," said Connie; "an' wots more," she added, "I don't
want to be."

"You be a lydy," said Mrs. Warren; "the Halmighty made yer into one."

"I don't talk like one," said Connie.

"No; but then, yer needn't speak. Oh lor'! I suppose that's Agnes
a-poundin' at the door. Oh, stand back, child, and I'll go to her."

Mrs. Warren opened the door, and Agnes stepped in.

"I ha' took French leave," she said. "I dunno wot they'll say at the
factory, but yere I be. You promised, you know, Mrs. Warren, ma'am, as I
shouldn't 'ave naught to do with factory life, niver no more."

"You needn't," said Mrs. Warren. "I ha' a deal o' work for yer to get
through; but come along into my bedroom and we'll talk over things."

Mrs. Warren and Agnes disappeared into the bedroom of the former, Mrs.
Warren having first taken the precaution to lock the sitting-room door
and put the key into her pocket. Poor Connie felt more than ever that
she was a prisoner. More than ever did she long for the old life which
she had lived. Notwithstanding her father's drinking bouts,
notwithstanding his cruelty and neglect, the free life, the above-board
life--even the dull, dull factory life--were all as heaven compared to
this terrible, mysterious existence in Mrs. Warren's comfortable rooms.




CHAPTER VIII.

COMPARISONS.


Mrs. Warren and Agnes talked together for quite three quarters of an
hour. When they came out of the bedroom, Mrs. Warren was wearing a
tight-fitting cloth jacket, which made her look more enormous even than
the cloak had done. She had a small black bonnet on her head, over which
she had drawn a spotted net veil. Her hands were encased in decent black
gloves, her skirt was short, and her boots tidy. She carried in her hand
a fair-sized brown leather bag; and telling Connie that she was "goin'
out," and would be back when she saw her and not before, left the two
girls alone in the little sitting-room.

After she had shut the door behind her, Agnes went over to it, and
possessing herself of the key, slipped it into her pocket. Then she
stared hard at Connie.

"Well," she said, "an' 'ow do yer like it?"

"I don't like it at all," answered Connie, "I want to go--I will go. I'd
rayther a sight be back in the factory. Mrs. Warren--she frightens me."

"You be a silly," said Agnes. "You talk like that 'cos you knows no
better. Why, 'ere you are as cosy and well tended as gel could be. Look
at this room. Think on the soft chair you're sittin' upon; think on the
meals; think on yer bedroom; think on the beautiful walk you 'ad this
morning. My word! you be a silly! No work to do, and nothing whatever to
trouble yer, except to act the lydy. My word! ef _you're_ discontent,
the world'll come to an end. Wish I were in your shoes--that I do."

"Well, Agnes, get into them," said Connie. "I'm sure you're more than
welcome. I'm jest--jest pinin' for wot you thinks naught on. I want to
see Giles and Sue and--and--father. You git into my shoes--you like
it--I don't like it."

Agnes burst into a loud laugh.

"My word!" she said, "you're be a gel and a 'arf. Wouldn't I jest jump
at gettin' into your shoes if I could? But there! yer shoes don't fit
me, and that's the truth."

"Don't fit yer, don't they?" exclaimed Connie. "Wot do yer mean by
that?"

"Too small," said Agnes, sticking out her ugly foot in its broken
boot--"too genteel--too neat. No one could make a lydy o' me. Look at my
'ands." She spread out her coarse, stumpy fingers. "Look at my face.
Why, yere's a glass; let's stand side by side, an' then let's compare.
Big face; no nose to speak of; upper lip two inches long; mouth--slit
from ear to ear; freckles; eyes what the boys call pig's eyes; 'air
rough and coarse; figure stumpy. Now look at you. Face fair as a lily;
nose straight and small; mouth like a rosebud; eyes blue as the sky. No,
Connie, it can't be done; what with that face o' yourn, and that gold
'air o' yourn, you're a beauty hout and hout. Yer face is yer fortoon',
my purty maid."

"My face ain't my fortune."

"Things don't fit, Connie. You ha' got to stay yere--and be a fine lydy.
That's the way you works for yer livin'--I ha' to work in a different
sort."

"What sort? Oh, do tel me!"

"No; that's my secret. But I've spoke out plain with the old woman, and
I'm comin' yere Saturday night--not to stay, bless yer! no, but to do
hodd jobs for her; for one thing, to look arter you when she's out. I
'spect she'll get Ronald back now you ha' come."

"Ronald!" cried Connie. "Who's he?"

"Never you mind; you'll know when yer see of 'im."

"Then I'm a prisoner," said Connie--"that's what it means."

"Well, well! take it like that ef yer like. Ain't it natural that Mrs.
Warren should want yer to stay now she ha' got yer? When yer stays
willin'-like, as yer will all too soon, then yer'll 'ave yer liberty.
Hin an' out then yer may go as yer pleases; there'll be naught to
interfere. Yer'll jest do yer dooty then, and yer dooty'll be to please
old Mammy Warren."

"Has my father missed me?" asked Connie, who saw by this time that she
could not possibly cope with Agnes; if ever she was to effect her escape
from this horrible place, it must be by guile.

"'Ow is father?" she asked. "'Ave he missed me yet?"

"Know nothing 'bout him. Don't think he have, for the boys, Dick and
Hal, was 'ome when I come back. They 'ad no news for me at all."

"You saw Sue to-day?"

"Yus, I saw her, an' I kep' well away from her."

"Agnes," said Connie in a very pleading voice, "ef I must stay 'ere--an'
I don't know wot I ha' done to be treated like this--will yer take a
message from me to little Giles?"

"Wot sort?" asked Agnes.

"Tell 'im straight from me that I can't come to see 'im for a few days,
an' ax him to pray for me; an' tell him that I 'ears the Woice same as
he 'ears the Woice, and tell 'im as it real comforts me. Wull yer do
that, Agnes--wull yer, now?"

"Maybe," said Agnes; then after a pause she added, "Or maybe I won't. I
'ates yer Methody sort o' weak-minded folks. That's the worst o' you,
Connie; you're real weak-minded, for all ye're so purty, what wid yer
'prays' an' yer Woice, indeed!"

"Hark! it's sounding now," said Connie.

She raised her little delicate hand, and turned her head to listen. The
splendid notes filled the air. Connie murmured something under her
breath.

"I know wot Giles 'ud say 'bout the Woice to-night," she murmured.

But Agnes burst into a loud laugh.

"My word!" she said. "You 're talkin' o' Big Ben. Well, you be a
caution."

"_He that shall endure_," whispered Connie; and then a curious hidden
sunshine seemed to come out and radiate her small face. She folded her
hands. The impatience faded from her eyes. She sat still and quiet.

"Wot hever's the matter with yer?" asked Agnes.

"Naught as yer can understand, Aggie."

"Let's get tea," said Agnes. She started up and made vigorous
preparations. Soon the tea was served and placed upon the little
centre-table. It was an excellent tea, with shrimps and
bread-and-butter, and cake and jam. Agnes ate enormously, but Connie was
not as hungry as usual.

"Prime, I call it!" said Agnes. "My word! to think of gettin' all this
and not workin' a bit for it! You be in luck, Connie Harris--you be in
luck."

When the meal was over, and Agnes had washed up and made the place tidy,
she announced her intention of going to sleep.

"I'm dead-tired," she said, "and swallerin' sech a fillin' meal have
made me drowsy. But I ha' the key in my pocket, so don't you be trying
that little gime o'running away."

Agnes slept, and snored in her sleep, and Connie restlessly walked to
the window and looked out. When Big Ben sounded again her eyes filled
with tears. She had never spent such a long and dismal evening in her
life.

Mammy Warren did not return home until between ten and eleven o'clock.
Immediately on her arrival, Agnes took her departure. Mammy Warren then
locked the door, and having provided herself with a stiff glass of
whisky-and-water, desired Connie to hurry off to bed.

"Yer'll be losing yer purty sleep," she said, "and then where'll yer
be?"

The next day Connie again walked abroad with Mrs. Warren. Once more she
was dressed in the dark-blue costume, with her golden hair hanging in a
great fleece down her back. But when she made her appearance without
the little blue handkerchief, Mrs. Warren sent her back for it.

"I know wot I'm about," she said. "The blue in the 'andkercher'll add to
the blue in yer eyes. Pop it on, gel, and be quick."

Connie obeyed.

"I don't--want to," she said.

"And _w'y_ don't yer?"

The woman's voice was very fierce.

"I'm somehow sort o' feared."

"Take that for bein' sort o' feared," said Mrs. Warren; and she hit the
child so fierce a blow on the arm that Connie cried out from the pain.

Poor Connie was a very timorous creature, however, and the effect of the
blow was to make her meek and subservient. The blue handkerchief was
tied on and arranged to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and they both went
out into the open air.

They went by 'bus to quite a different part of the town on this
occasion, and Mrs. Warren again assured her little companion that she
had a great deal of shopping to get through.

"That is why I wear this cloak," she said; "I ha' bags fastened inside
to hold the things as I buy."

Once again they got into a crowd, and once again Connie was desired to
walk on a little way in front, and once again people turned to look at
the slim, fair child with her beautiful face and lovely hair. Once more
they entered several shops, and invariably chose the most crowded
parts--so crowded that Mrs. Warren whispered to Connie:

"We must wait till our turn, honey. We must ha' patience, dearie."

They had patience. Mrs. Warren did absolutely purchase half-a-dozen very
coarse pocket-handkerchiefs, keeping Connie close to her all the time.
One of these she straightway presented to the girl, saying in a loud
voice as she did so to the attendant:

"I'm out with the purty dear to give her exercise. I am her nurse. She
mustn't walk too far. No, thank you, mum, I'll carry the 'andkerchers
'ome myself; I won't trouble yer to send them to Portland
Mansions.--Now, come along, my dear; we mustn't waste our time in this
'ot shop. We must be hout, taking of our exercise."

They walked a very, very long way that morning, and Mrs. Warren,
contrary to her yesterday's plan, did now and then expend a few pence.
Whenever she did so she drew the shop people's attention to Connie,
speaking of her as her charge, and a "dear, delicate young lydy," and
begging of the people to be quick, as "'ot air" was so bad for the dear
child; and invariably she refused to allow a parcel to be sent to
Portland Mansions, saying that she preferred to carry it. At last,
however, she seemed to think that Connie had had sufficient exercise,
and they went home from the corner of Tottenham Court Road on the top of
a 'bus.

On their way Connie turned innocently to her companion and said:

"Why ever did yer say as we lived in Portland Mansions?" But a sharp
pinch on the girl's arm silenced her, and she felt more nervous and
frightened than ever.

The moment they got home, Mrs. Warren again returned to her bedroom, and
came back neatly dressed in a black and yellow silk, with a keen
appreciation of roast pork and apple sauce, which had been preparing in
the oven all the morning. Connie too was hungry.

When the meal came to an end Mrs. Warren said:

"More like a lydy you grows each minute. But, my dear, I must thank yer
nivver to open yer mouth when you're out, for yer ain't got the accent.
Yer must niver do it until yer has acquired the rightful accent."

"Was that why yer pinched me so 'ard when I axed why yer spoke o'
Portland Mansions?" asked Connie.

Mrs. Warren burst into a loud laugh.

"Course it were," she said. "Don't yer nivver do nothing o' that sort
agin."

"But we don't live in Portland Mansions. Why did yer say so?" asked
Connie.

"Ax no questions and yer'll be told no lies," was Mrs. Warren's
response.

She accompanied this apparently innocent speech with a look out of her
fierce black eyes which caused poor Connie's heart to sink into her
shoes. After a minute Mrs. Warren said:

"To-morrer's Saturday; we'll go out a bit in the morning, and then we'll
take train into the country. I promised yer a jaunt, and yer shall 'ave
it. I'm thinking a lot o' yer, my dear, and 'ow I can best help such a
beautiful young gel. Yer accent must be 'tended to, and the best way to
manage that is for you to have a refoined sort o' companion. Ronald is
that sort. We'll go and fetch 'im 'ome to-morrer."

"Whoever is Ronald?" asked Connie. "Do tell me, please," she added in an
interested voice, "for Agnes spoke of him yesterday."

"You wait till yer see," said Mrs. Warren. She nodded good-humoredly.

The rest of the day passed very much like the day before. It was again
intensely dull to poor Connie. She had nothing whatever to do but to
feed and sit still. Again Mrs. Warren slept until tea-time. Then Agnes
made her appearance, and Mrs. Warren went out in a tight-fitting coat,
and with a leather bag in her hand. Agnes made tea and scolded Connie;
and Connie grumbled and cried, and begged and begged to be given back
her liberty.

Mrs. Warren returned a little later than the night before. Agnes went
away; Mrs. Warren drank whisky-and-water, and Connie was sent to bed.
Oh, it was a miserable night! And would her own people ever find her?
Would Sue be satisfied that Connie was not quite lost? And would Father
John look for her? Dear, kind, splendid Father John! What would she not
give to hear his magnificent voice as he preached to the people once
again? Would not her own father search heaven and earth to find his only
child? He was so good to Connie when he was not drunk--so proud of her,
too, so glad when she kissed him so anxious to do the best he could for
her! Would he give her up for ever? "Oh dear, dear!" thought the poor
child, "if it was not for the Woice I believe I'd go mad; but the
Woice--it holds me up. I'm 'appy enough w'en I 'ears it. Oh, little
Giles, thank yer for telling me o' the wonnerful Woice!"




CHAPTER IX.

A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY.


Saturday dawned a very bright and beautiful day. Mrs. Warren got up
early, and Connie also rose, feeling somehow or other that she was going
to have a pleasanter time than she had yet enjoyed since her
imprisonment. Oh yes, she was quite certain now that she was imprisoned;
but for what object it was impossible for her even to guess.

Mrs. Warren bustled out quite an hour earlier than usual. She did not go
far on this occasion. She seemed a little anxious, and once or twice, to
Connie's amazement, dodged down a back street as though she were afraid.
Her red face turned quite pale when she did this, and she clutched
Connie's arm and said in a faltering voice:

"I'm tuk with a stitch in my side! Oh, my poor, dear young lydy, I'm
afeered as I won't be able to take yer for a long walk this blessed
morning."

But when Connie, later on, inquired after the stitch, she was told to
mind her own business, and she began to think that Mrs. Warren had
pretended.

They reached Waterloo at quite an early hour, and there they took
third-class tickets to a part of the country about thirty miles from
London. It took them over an hour to get down, and during that time
Connie sat by the window wrapped in contemplation. For the first time
she saw green grass and hills and running water, and although it was
midwinter she saw trees which seemed to her too magnificent and glorious
for words. Her eyes shone with happiness, and she almost forgot Mrs.
Warren's existence. At last they reached the little wayside station to
which Mrs. Warren had taken tickets. They got out, and walked down a
winding country lane.

"Is this real, real country?" asked Connie.

"Yus--too real for me."

"Oh ma'am, it's bootiful! But I dunna see the flowers."

"Flowers don't grow in the winter, silly."

"Don't they? I thought for sure I'd see 'em a-blowin' and a-growin'. Yer
said so--yer mind."

"Well, so yer wull, come springtime, ef ye're a good gel. Now, I want to
talk wid yer wery serious-like."

"Oh ma'am, don't!" said poor Connie.

"None o' yer 'dont's' wid me! You ha' got to be very thankful to me for
all I'm a-doin' for yer--feedin yer, and cockerin' yer up, and makin' a
fuss o' yer, and brushing out yer 'air, and giving yer blue ties, and
boots, and gloves."

"Oh ma'am, yes," said Connie; "and I'm wery much obleeged--I am,
truly--but I'd rayther a sight rayther, go 'ome to father; I would,
ma'am."

"Wot little gels 'ud like isn't wot little gels 'ull get," said Mrs.
Warren. "You come to me of yer own free will, and 'avin' come, yer'll
stay. Ef yer makes a fuss, or lets out to anybody that yer don't like
it, I've a little room in my house--a room widdout no light and no
winder, and so far away from any other room that yer might scream
yerself sick and no one 'ud 'ear. Into that room yer goes ef yer makes
trouble. And now, listen."

Mrs. Warren gripped Connie's arm so tight that the poor child had to
suppress a scream.

"I know wot ye're been saying to Agnes--a-grumblin' and a-grumblin' to
Agnes, instead o' down on yer knees and thankin' the Almighty that
yer've found Mammy Warren. I know all about it: Yer'll stop that--d'yer
'ear--d'yer 'ear?"

"Yus, ma'am," said Connie.

"Do yer, promise?"

"Yus, ma'am," said the poor child again.

"I'll see as yer keeps it--yer little good-for-nothing beggar maid as
I'm a-pamperin' of! Don't I work for yer, and toil for yer? And am I to
have naught but grumbles for my pains? Yer won't like that room--an'
it's there!"

"I won't grumble," said Connie, terrified, and not daring to do anything
but propitiate her tyrant.

Mrs. Warren's manner altered.

"Wull," she said, "I ha' brought yer down all this long way to 'ave a
plain talk, and I guess we 'ave 'ad it. You please me, and I'll do my
dooty by you; but don't please me, and there ain't a gel in the whole of
Lunnon'll be more misrubble than you. Don't think as yer'll git aw'y,
for yer won't--no, not a bit o' it. And now I've something else to say.
There's a young boy as we're goin' to see to-day. 'Is name is Ronald;
he's a special friend o' mine. I ha' had that boy a-wisiting o' me afore
now, but he were took bad with a sort of fever. My word! din't I nurse
him--the best o' good things didn't I give 'im! But his narves went
wrong, and I sent him into the country for change of hair. He's all
right now. He's a very purty boy, same as you're a purty gel, and I'm
goin' to bring him back to be a companion for yer."

"Oh ma'am!"

"Yus," said Mrs. Warren. "Yer'll like that, won't yer?"

"Oh yus, ma'am."

"Wull, now--we'll be calling at the cottage in a few minutes, and wot I
want yer to do is to have a talk with that yer boy. Ye're to tell him as
I'm wonnerful good; ye're to tell him the sort o' things I does for yer.
The poor boy--he got a notion in his head w'en he had the fever--that
I--I--Mammy Warren--wor cruel to him. You tell him as there ain't a word
o' truth in it, for a kinder or more motherly body never lived. Ef yer
don't tell him that, I'll soon find out; an' there's the room without
winders an' without light real 'andy. Now--do yer promise?"

These words were accompanied by a violent shake.

"Do yer promise?"

"Yus, I promise," said Connie, turning white.

Mrs. Warren had an extraordinary capacity for changing her voice and
manner, even the expression of her face. While she had been extracting
two promises from poor Connie, she looked like the most awful, wicked
old woman that the worst parts of London could produce; but when on two
points Connie had faithfully promised to yield to her wishes, she
immediately altered her tactics, and became as genial and affectionate
and pleasant as she had been the reverse a few minutes back.

"I believes yer," she said, "and you're a real nice child, and there
won't be any one in the 'ole of Lunnun 'appier than you as long as yer
take the part of poor old Mammy Warren. Now then, yere's the cottage,
and soon we'll see the little man. He'll be a nice companion for yer,
Connie, and yer'll like that, won't you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am," said Connie.

She was not a London child for nothing. She had known a good deal of its
ups and downs, although nothing quite so terrible as her present
position had ever entered into her mind. But she saw clearly enough that
the only chance of deliverance for her, and perhaps for the poor little
boy, was to carry out Mammy Warren's injunctions and to keep her promise
to the letter. Accordingly, when Mrs. Warren's knock at the cottage door
was answered by a kind-looking, pale-faced woman, Connie raised her
bright blue eyes to the woman's face and listened with deep interest
when Mrs. Warren inquired how the poor little boy was.

"Is it Ronald?" said the woman, whose name was Mrs. Cricket. "He's ever
so much better; he's taken kindly to his food, and is out in the woods
now at the back of the house playing all by himself."

"In the woods is he, now?" said Mrs. Warren. "Well, I ha' come to fetch
him 'ome."

"Oh ma'am, I don't think he's as strong as all that."

"I ha' come to fetch him 'ome by the wishes of his parients," said Mrs.
Warren. "I suppose," she added, "there's no doubt in yer moind that I
'_ave_ come from the parients of the boy?"

"Oh no, ma'am--none, o' course. Will you come in, and I'll fetch him?"

"Is he quite right in the 'ead now?" said Mrs. Warren as she and Connie
followed Mrs. Cricket into the cottage.

"He's better," said that good woman.

"No talk o' dark rooms and nasty nightmares and cruel old women? All
those things quite forgot?" asked Mrs. Warren.

"He ain't spoke o' them lately."

"Well then, he's cured; he's quite fit to come 'ome. This young lydy is
a r'lation o' hisn. I ha' brought her down to see 'im, and we'll all
travel back to town together.--You might go and find him, my dear," said
Mrs. Warren, turning to Connie, and meanwhile putting her finger to her
lips when Mrs. Cricket's back was turned in order to enjoin silence on
the girl.

"You run out into the woods, my purty, and find the dear little boy and
bring him back here as fast as yer like."

"Yes, missy," said Mrs. Cricket, opening the back door of the cottage,
"you run out, straight up that path, and you'll find little Ronald."

Connie obeyed. She was glad to be alone in order to collect her
thoughts. A wild idea of running away even now presented itself to her.
But looking back, she perceived that Mrs. Warren had seated herself by
the kitchen window and had her bold eyes fixed on her retreating little
figure. No chance of running away. She must trust to luck, and for the
present she must carry out Mrs. Warren's instructions.

Presently she came up to the object of her search--an exceedingly
pretty, dark-haired boy of about ten years of age. His face was pale,
his features regular, his eyes very large, brown, and soft, like rich
brown velvet. He did not pay much attention to Connie, but went on
laying out a pile of horse-chestnuts which he had gathered in rows on
the ground.

"Be your name Ronald?" said Connie, coming up to him.

He looked at her, then sprang to his feet, and politely took off his
little cap.

"Yes, my name is Ronald Harvey."

"I ha' come to fetch yer," said Connie.

"What for?" asked the boy.

"It's Mammy Warren," said Connie in a low tone.

"What?" asked the child.

His face, always pale, now turned ghastly white.

"She's such a nice woman," said Connie.

She sat down by Ronald.

"Show me these purty balls," she said. "Wot be they?"

"Chestnuts," said the boy. "Did you ever see them before? That was not
true what you said about--about----"

"Yus," said Connie, "it is true. I'm a little gel stayin' with her now,
and you--I want you to come back with me. She's real, real kind is Mammy
Warren."

The boy put his hand up to his forehead.

"You seem a nice girl," he said, "and you look like--like a lady, only
you don't talk the way ladies talk. I'm a gentleman. My father was an
officer in the army, and my darling mother died, and--and something
happened--I don't know what--but I was very, very, very ill. There was
an awful time first, and there seemed to be a woman called Mammy Warren
mixed up in the time and----"

"Oh, you had fever," said Connie, "and you--you pictured things to
yourself in the fever. But 'tain't true," she added earnestly. "I'm wid
her, an' she's real, real, wonnerful kind."

"You wouldn't tell a lie, would you, girl?" said the boy.

Connie bit her lip hard.

"No," she said then in a choked voice.

"I wonder if it's true," said the boy. "It seems to me it was much more
than the fever, but I can't--I can't _quite_ remember."

"She is very kind," echoed Connie.

"Children, come along in," said a cheerful voice at that moment; and
Connie, raising her eyes, saw the sturdy form of Mrs. Warren advancing
up the path to meet her.

"She was terrible cruel in my time," said Ronald, glancing at the same
figure. "I don't want to go back."

"Oh, do--do come back, for my sake!" whispered Connie.

He turned and looked into the beautiful little face.

"Boys have to be good," he said then, "and--and brave. My father was a
very brave man." Then he struggled to his feet.

"Well, Ronald," said Mrs. Warren, "and 'ow may yer be, my dear little
boy? This is Connie, a cousin o' yourn. Wot playmates you two wull be!
Ye're both comin' back with me to my nice 'ome this wery arfternoon. And
now Mrs. Cricket 'as got a meal for us all and then yer little things'll
be packed, Ronald, and I'll carry 'em--for in course yer nurse ought to
carry yer clothes, my boy. We'll get off to the train as fast as ever we
can arter we've had our meal. Now, children, foller me back to the
cottage."

Mrs. Warren sailed on in front. Connie and Ronald followed after, hand
in hand. There was quite a splendid color in Connie's pale cheeks now,
for all of a sudden she saw a reason for her present life. She had got
to protect Ronald, who was so much younger than herself. She would
protect him with her very life if necessary.




CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN TO LONDON.


Mrs. Warren made a very hearty meal. She swallowed down cup after cup of
strong coffee, and ate great hunches of thick bread-and-butter, and
called out to the children not to shirk their food.

But, try as they would, neither Connie nor Ronald had much appetite.
Connie, in spite of herself, could not help casting anxious glances at
the little boy, and whenever she did so she found that Mrs. Warren had
fixed her with her bold black eyes. It seemed to Connie that Mrs.
Warren's eyes said quite as plainly as though her lips had spoken:

"I'll keep my word; there's the room with no winder and no light in
it--yer'll find yerself in there ef yer don't look purty sharp."

But notwithstanding the threatening expression of Mrs. Warren's eyes,
Connie could not restrain all sign of feeling. Ronald, on the other
hand, appeared quite bright. He devoted himself to Connie, helping her
in the most gentlemanly way to the good things which Mrs. Cricket had
provided.

"The apple jam is very nice," he said. "I watched Mrs. Cricket make
it.--Didn't I, Mrs. Cricket?"

"That you did, my little love," said the good woman. "And I give you a
little saucer of it all hot and tasty for your tea, didn't I, my little
love?"

"Oh yes," replied Ronald; "and didn't I like it, just!"

"Jam's wery bad for little boys," said Mrs. Warren at this juncture.
"Jam guvs little boys fever an' shockin' cruel dreams. It's
bread-and-butter as little boys should heat, and sometimes bread without
butter in case they should turn bilious."

"Oh no, ma'am, begging your pardon," here interrupted Mrs. Cricket; "I
haven't found it so with dear little Master Ronald. You tell his
parients, please, ma'am, that it's milk as he wants--lots and lots of
country milk--and--and a chop now and then, and chicken if it's young
and tender. That was 'ow I pulled 'im round.--Wasn't it, Ronald, my
dear?"

"Yes," said Ronald in his gentlemanly way. "You were very good indeed,
Mrs. Cricket."

"Perhaps," interrupted Mrs. Warren, drawing herself up to her full
height, which was by no means great, and pursing her lips, "yer'll 'ave
the goodness, Mrs. Cricket, to put on a piece o' paper the exact diet
yer like to horder for this yere boy. I'm a busy woman," said Mrs.
Warren, "and I can't keep it in my 'ead. It's chuckens an' chops an'
new-laid heggs--yer did say new-laid heggs at thruppence each didn't
yer, Mrs. Cricket?--an' the richest an' best milk, mostly cream, I take
it."

"I said nothing about new-laid eggs," said Mrs. Cricket, who was
exceedingly exact and orderly in her mind; "but now, as you 'ave
mentioned them, they'd come in very 'andy. But I certain did speak of
the other things, and I'll write 'em down ef yer like."

"Do," said Mrs. Warren, "and I'll mention 'em to the child's parients
w'en I see 'em."

But at this juncture something startling happened, for Ronald, white as
a sheet, rose.

"Has my father come back?" he asked. "Have you heard from him? Are you
taking me to him?"

Mrs. Warren gazed full at Ronald, and, quick as thought, she adopted his
idea. Here would be a way--a delightful way--of getting the boy back to
her dreadful house.

"Now, ain't I good?" she said. "Don't I know wot a dear little boy
wants? Yus, my love, ye're soon to be in the harms of yer dear parient."

"But you said both parients," interrupted Mrs. Cricket.

Mrs. Warren put up her finger to her lips. She had got the boy in her
arms, and he found himself most unwillingly folded to her ample breast.

"Ain't one enough at a time?" was her most dubious remark. "And now
then, Ronald, hurry up with yer things, for Connie and me, we must be
hoff. We could leave yer behind, ef yer so wished it, but Lunnun 'ud be
a much more convenient place for yer to meet yer father."

"Oh I'll go, I'll go!" said Ronald. "My darling, darling father! Oh, I
did think I'd never see him again! And he's quite well, Mrs. Warren?"

"In splendid, splendid health," said Mrs. Warren. "Niver did I lay eyes
on so 'andsome a man."

"And I'll see him to-night?" said Ronald.

"Yus--ef ye're quick."

Then Ronald darted into the next room, and Mrs. Cricket followed him,
and Connie and Mrs. Warren faced each other. Mrs. Warren began to laugh
immoderately.

"Young and tender chuckens," she said, "an' chops an' new-laid heggs an'
milk. Wotever's the matter with yer, Connie?"

Connie answered timidly that she though Ronald a dear little boy, and
very pretty, and that she hoped that he would soon get strong with the
nourishing food that Mrs. Warren was going to give him. But here that
worthy woman winked in so mysterious and awful a manner that poor Connie
felt as though she had received an electric shock. After a time she
spoke again.

"I'm so glad about his father!" she said. "His father was a hofficer in
the harmy. Will he really see him to-night, Mrs. Warren?"

"Will the sky fall?" was Mrs. Warren's ambiguous answer. "Once for all,
Connie, you ax no questions an' you'll be told no lies."

A very few moments afterwards Ronald came out of the little bedroom,
prepared for his journey. Mrs. Cricket cried when she parted with him,
but there were no tears in the boy's lovely eyes--he was all smiles and
excitement.

"I'll bring my own, own father down to see you, Mrs. Cricket," he said;
"maybe not to-morrow, but some day next week. For you've been very good
to me, darling Mrs. Cricket."

Then Mrs. Cricket kissed him and cried over him again, and the scene
might have been prolonged if Mrs. Warren had not caught the boy roughly
by the shoulder and pulled him away.

As they were marching down the tiny path which led from the cottage to
the high-road, Mrs. Cricket did venture to say in an anxious voice:

"I s'pose as Major Harvey'll pay me the little money as I spended on the
dear child?"

"That he will," said Mrs. Warren. "I'll see him to-night, most like, and
I'll be sure to mention the chuckens and the chops."

"Well then, good-bye again, darling," said Mrs. Cricket. Ronald blew a
kiss to her, and then, taking Connie's hand, they marched down the
high-road in the direction of the railway station, Mrs. Warren trotting
by their side, carrying the small bundle which contained Ronald's
clothes all tied up neatly in a blue check handkerchief.

"Yer'll be sure to tell yer father wot a good nurse I were to you,
Ronald," she remarked as they found themselves alone in a third-class
carriage.

"You're quite sure it _was_ only a dream?" said Ronald then very
earnestly.

"Wot do yer mean by that, chile?" inquired Mrs. Warren.

"I mean the dark room without any light, and the dreadful person
who--who--flogged me, and--the hunger."

"Poor little kid!" said Mrs. Warren. "Didn't he 'ave the fever, and
didn't Mammy Warren hold him in her arms, an', big boy that he be,
walked up and down the room wid him, and tried to soothe him w'en he
said them nasty lies? It wor a dream, my dear. W'y, Connie here can tell
yer 'ow good I am to 'er."

"Wery good," said Connie--"so good that there niver were no one better."

She tumbled out the words in desperation, and Mammy Warren gave her a
radiant smile, and poked her playfully in the ribs, and said that she
was quite the funniest gel she had ever come acrost. After this Connie
was quite silent until the little party found themselves at Waterloo.

Here they mounted to the top of a 'bus, and Ronald, trembling with
delight, clutched hold of Connie's hand.

"Stoop down," he said; "I want to whisper." Connie bent towards him. "Do
you think my father will be waiting for me when we get back to Mrs.
Warren's?"

"I don't know," was the only reply poor Connie could manage to give him.

At last the omnibus drive came to an end, and the trio walked the short
remaining distance to Mrs. Warren's rooms. Ronald almost tumbled
upstairs in his eagerness to get there first.

"Oh, how will he get in? I do hope he's not been waiting and gone away
again."

Mrs. Warren opened the door with her latch key. The room was dark, for
there was neither fire-light nor gas-light; but soon these deficiencies
were supplied, for Mrs. Warren was exceedingly fond of creature
comforts.

"I wonder when he'll come," said Ronald. He was standing by the table
and looking anxiously with his big brown eyes all round him. "I do
wonder when he'll come."

Mrs. Warren made no reply. She began to prepare supper. As she did so
there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Warren went to open it. She had an
eager conversation with some one who stood without, and then she and
Agnes entered the room together. Ronald evidently knew Agnes, for he
shrank away from her and regarded her arrival with the reverse of
pleasure.

"Wull--and 'ow yer?" said Agnes in a cheerful tone.

She chucked Ronald under the chin and remarked on his healthy
appearance.

"Wull," said Mrs. Warren, "yer can't blame the pore child for that,
seein' as he 'ave been cockered up on the best food in the
land--chuckens and chops, no less."

"Oh, dear me! how shockin' greedy you must be!" said Agnes. "I'm sure,
ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Warren, "no one could desire
better than wot _you_ 'as to eat."

"I like my own food," said Mrs. Warren, "although it be simplicity
itself. There are two red 'errin's for supper to-night, and
bread-and-butter and tea, and a _little_ raspberry jam, and ef that
ain't enough for anybody's palate, I don't know----"

"My father, when he comes"--began Ronald, but here Mrs. Warren turned to
him.

"You're a manly boy, Ronald," she said, "and I know you'll tike wot I
'ave to say in a manly sperrit. Yer father have been called out o'
Lunnon, and won't be back for a day or two. He sent a message by Agnes
'ere. He don't know the exact day as he'll be back, but he'll come wery
soon."

"Yes," said Agnes, "I seen him."

"Where?" asked Ronald.

"In the street," said Agnes. "He come along 'ere an hour back. Ef you'd
been 'ome he might ha' took yer back with him; but w'en he found that
you was still in the country he wor that pleased 'is whole face seemed
to smile, and he said--said 'e, 'Dear Mammy Warren--I'd like to chuck
her under her chin.' Them was his wery words."

"I don't believe my father would say that sort of thing," answered
Ronald.

"Oh my!" said Agnes. "Highty-tighty! Don't yer go an' say as I tells
lies, young man----"

"An' it's the wery thing he would say," interrupted Mrs. Warren, "for a
plainer-spoken, more hagreeable man than the Major niver drew breath."

"He left yer a message," continued Agnes, "an' yer can tike it or leave
it--I don't care. Wot he said wor this. You're to obey Mammy Warren, an'
be wery grateful to her, an' do jest wot she tells yer until he comes
'ome. He'll be 'ome any day, an' he'll come an' fetch yer then, and the
more good yer be to Mammy Warren the better pleased he'll be."

Ronald sat down on a little stool. He had sat on that stool before. He
looked with dim eyes across the over-furnished, hot, and terribly ugly
room. That vision of delight which had buoyed him up all the way back to
London was not to be realized for a few days. He must bear with Mrs.
Warren for a few days. It did not enter into his head that the whole
story about his father was false from beginning to end. The present
disappointment was quite enough for so young a child to bear.

After this Mrs. Warren and Agnes conversed in semi-whispers, and
presently they retired into Mrs Warren's bedroom, and Connie and Ronald
were alone.

"I am glad yer've come 'ere, Ronald," said Connie.

"Yes," said Ronald. He pressed his little white hand against his
forehead.

"You're missing your father, I know," continued Connie, "Somehow I'm
a-missing o' mine."

"Have you a father, Connie?" asked the little boy.

"Yus--that I 'ave," said Connie. "Not a great, grand gentleman like
yourn, but a father for all that."

"Is your father in London?" asked the boy.

"Oh yes," answered Connie, "and not far from 'ere, nayther."

"Then why aren't you with him?" asked Ronald.

"'Cos I can't be," replied Connie in a low whisper.

"Hush!" said Ronald.

Just then the door opened and Agnes came out. Mrs. Warren followed her.
Mrs. Warren wore her usual tight-fitting jacket, but on this occasion
Agnes carried a leather bag, which seemed to be stuffed so full that it
was with difficulty it could be kept shut.

Mrs. Warren addressed the two children.

"I'm goin' to lock you two in," she said, "an' you'd best go to bed.
There's a little bed made up in your room, Connie, for Ronald to sleep
in; and as you're a deal older than that sweet little boy, you'll nurse
him off to sleep, jest as though he wor your real brother. Arter he's
asleep you can go to bed yerself, for there's nothing like early hours
for beauty sleep. You yere me, Connie? You know wot to do?"

"Yus," answered Connie. Her voice was almost cheerful. She was so truly
glad that Mrs. Warren was going out. When she heard the key turning in
the lock, and knew that she and Ronald were locked in all alone, she
scarcely seemed to mind, so glad was she of Ronald's company. Neither
child spoke to the other until the retreating footsteps of Mrs. Warren
and Agnes ceased to sound on the stairs.

Then Connie went up to Ronald, and kneeling down by him put her arms
round him and kissed him.

"You're very pretty," said the little boy, "although you don't talk
like a lady. But that doesn't matter," he added, "for you've got a
lady's heart."

"I love you, Ronald," was Connie's answer.

Ronald now put his own arms round Connie's neck and kissed her once or
twice on her peach-like cheek, and then they both sat down on the floor
and were happy for a few minutes in each other's company. After that
Ronald began to speak. He told Connie about his father and about his
mother. He did not cry at all, as most children would have done, when he
spoke of those he loved so dearly.

"Mother's dead nearly a year now," he said. "It was waiting for father
that killed her. Father went out to a dreadful war in South Africa, and
we heard that he was killed. Mother wouldn't believe it; she never did
believe it--never--and she taught me not to, and I never did. But, all
the same, it killed her."

"And then wot became of you?" asked Connie.

"I was taken here," replied Ronald. "That's three or four months ago
now. I remember quite well being out walking with my nurse. She wasn't
very nice, my nurse wasn't; but she was--oh, so good and kind compared
to--what--what happened afterwards! Darling mother was dead. They had
put her body in the grave, and the angels had got her soul. I didn't
like to think of the grave, but I did love to remember the angels. The
last thing mother said when she was dying was, 'Ronald, when your father
comes back, be sure you tell him that I never believed that he was
really dead.'"

"I promised her, and then she said again, 'And you'll never believe it
either, Ronald.' And I said that I never, never would, if it was a
thousand years. And then she kissed me and smiled; and I s'pose the
angels took her, for she never spoke any more."

"Well," said Connie, who did not want Ronald to dwell too long on this
very sad scene, "tell us 'bout the day you come 'ere."

"Mother was in her grave," said Ronald, "and there was no one who
thought very much about me; and my nurse--she was not half as kind as
when mother lived. One day she took me for a walk. We went a long, long
way, and presently she asked me to wait for her outside one of those
awful gin-palaces. She used to go in there sometimes, even when mother
was alive. Well, I waited and waited outside, but she never came out. I
was not a bit frightened at first, of course, for my father's boy
mustn't be a coward, must he, Connie?"

"No," answered Connie.

"But she didn't come out, and it got late, and people began to look at
me, and by-and-by Mammy Warren came out of the gin-palace. She was--oh,
so red in the face! and I thought I'd never seen so dreadfully stout a
woman. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'Wotever are you doing
here?' And I said, 'I'm waiting for my nurse, Hannah Waters.' And she
said, 'Oh, then, _you're_ the little boy!' And I stared at her, and she
said, 'Pooh Hannah's took bad, and she's asked me to take you home. Come
along at once, my dear.'

"I went with her. I wasn't a bit frightened--I had never been frightened
in all my life up to then. But she didn't take me home at all. She
brought me to this house. She was very kind to me at first, in a sort of
a way, and she told me that my relations had given me to her to look
after, and that I was to be her little boy for the present, and must do
just what she wanted."

"Well--and wot did she want?" asked Connie, trembling not a little.

"It wasn't so dreadful bad at first," continued Ronald. "She used to
take me out every day for long walks, and she made me look very nice;
and we went into shops, for she said she wanted to buy things, but I
don't think she ever did buy much. I used to be tired sometimes; we
walked such a very long way."

"And did she ever make you go a little, tiny bit in front of her?" said
Connie.

"Why, yes," replied Ronald. "But I rather liked that, for, you see, I'm
a gentleman, and she's not a lady."

"I wonder," said Connie, "ef she spoke of herself as your old nurse."

Ronald began to laugh.

"How clever of you to think of that, Connie! She always did; and
whenever she did buy things she said they were for me; and she used to
give--oh, tremendous grand addresses of where I lived."

"Portland Mansions, p'r'aps?" said Connie.

"Sometimes that, and sometimes other places; but of course the parcels
were never sent there; she always carried them herself."

"And she wore a big, big cloak, with pockets inside?" asked Connie.

"Yes, she did--she did."

"She does just the same with me now," said Connie. "I go out with her
every day, and we go into the big shops--into the most crowded
parts--and she doesn't buy much. I like that the best part of the day,
for all the rest of the time I have to stay here and do nothing."

"And so had I to stay in these rooms and do nothing," said Ronald. "But
I won't have to stay long now," he continued, "as my dear, dear father
has come home. Oh! I wish darling mother were alive, that she might feel
as happy as I do to-night."

"But tell me, Ronald," continued Connie, "how was it yer got the fever?"

"I don't quite remember that part," said the little boy. "All that part
was made up of dreams. There was a dreadful dream when I seemed to be
quite well, and when I said something before some one, and Mammy Warren
turned scarlet; and when I was alone she--she flogged me and put me
into a dark, dark room for--oh! it seemed like--for ever. And I had
nothing to eat, and I was so frightened--for she said there was a bogy
there--that I nearly died. I didn't like to be frightened, for it seemed
as though I couldn't be father's own son if I were afraid. But I was
afraid, Connie--I was. I'll have to tell darling father about it when I
see him; I'm sure he'll forgive me, more particular when he knows the
whole thing was only a fever dream--for there's not any room in this
house like that, is there, Connie."

"Yes, but there be," thought Connie. But she did not say so aloud.

That night Ronald slept as peacefully as though he were really back
again with his father. But Connie lay awake. Anxious as she had been
before Ronald's arrival, that state of things was nothing at all to her
present anxiety.

The next day was Sunday, and if it had not been for Big Ben the two poor
children would have had a most miserable time, for they were shut up in
Mrs. Warren's room from morning till night. In vain they begged to be
allowed to go out. Mrs. Warren said "No," and in so emphatic a manner
that they did not dare to ask her twice.

Agnes did not come at all to the house on Sunday, and Connie and Ronald
finally curled themselves up in the deep window-ledge, and Connie talked
and told Ronald all about her past life. In particular she told him
about Big Ben, and little Giles, and the wonderful, most wonderful
"Woice." After that the children had a sort of play together, in which
Ronald proved himself to be a most imaginative little person, for he
invented many fresh stories with regard to Big Ben, assuring Connie that
he was much more than a voice. He would not be at all surprised, he said
if Big Ben was not a great angel who came straight down from heaven
every hour to comfort the sorrowful people in Westminster. Ronald
thought it extremely likely that this wonderful angel knew his own
mother, and was on this special Sunday telling him to be a brave boy and
keep up his heart, for most certainly he would be safe back with his
father before another Sunday came.

"That's what he says," continued Ronald, "and that's what'll happen,
you'll see, Connie. And when darling father comes here you shall come
away too, for I won't leave you alone with Mammy Warren. She's not a
real kind person, is she, Connie?"

"Don't ax me," said Connie. Ronald looked up into her face.

"You can't tell a lie at all well," he said. "You're trying to make me
think that Mammy Warren's nice, but you're not doing it well, for I
don't believe you."

Then the big clock once again tolled the hour, and Ronald laughed with
glee.

"There's no doubt about it now," he said. "Father _is_ coming, and very,
very soon. Oh I am glad, and happy!"

During that Sunday the children had very little food, for Mrs. Warren
seemed all of a sudden to have changed her tactics. Whether it was the
fact that she was really angry at Mrs. Cricket's having fed the boy on
chicken and mutton-chops, no one could tell; but all he did have on that
eventful Sunday was weak tea, stale bread and butter, and a very little
jam.

Towards evening the two poor little creatures were really hungry.
By-and-by they clasped each other round the neck, and fell asleep in
each other's arms. It was in this condition--curled up near the
fire--that Mrs. Warren found them when she got home.




CHAPTER XI.

A NEW DEPARTURE.


With Monday morning, however, all things seemed to have altered. Mrs.
Warren was up spry and early. She called Connie to come and help her,
but she desired Ronald to lie in bed.

"It's a nasty day," she said; "there's sleet falling. We'll go out, of
course, for fresh air is good for children, but we must none of us wear
our best clothes."

"What do yer mean by that?" said Connie.

"Don't you go and ax me wot I mean; just do wot I tells yer. No
dark-blue dress for yer to-day, missy. I ha' got a old gownd as 'ull fit
yer fine."

Poor Connie trembled. Mrs. Warren went into her bedroom.

"'Ere, now," she said, "you put it on."

The old gown was certainly not at all nice. Its color was quite
indescribable. It was very ragged and torn, too, round the bottom of the
skirt. It dragged down in front so as almost to trip poor Connie when
she tried to walk, and was several inches too short in the back.

Mrs. Warren desired Connie to take off her dainty shoes and stockings,
and gave her some stockings with holes in them, and some very
disreputable shoes down at the heel. She made her pin across her chest a
little old shawl of an ugly pale pattern, and instead of allowing her to
wear her hair in a golden fleece down her back, she plaited it, and tied
it into a little bunch at the back of her head. She then put an old
bonnet on the child's head--a bonnet which must have once belonged to
quite an elderly woman--and tied it with strings in front. Connie felt
terribly ashamed of herself.

"I'm all in rags," she said, "jest as though I wor a beggar maid."

"I've a fancy that yer shall wear these 'ere clothes to-day," said Mrs.
Warren. "Yer've been a fine lydy too long; yer'll be a beggar maid
to-day. W'en I tell yer wot to do in the street, yer'll do it. You can
sing, I take it. Now then, you learn the words."

Mrs. Warren planted down before Connie the well-known words of "Home,
Sweet Home."

"I know this without learning it," said the girl.

"An' you 'as a good woice, I take it."

"Middlin'," replied Connie.

"Wull, sing it for me now."

Connie struck up the familiar words, and so frightened was she that in
real desperation she acquitted herself fairly well.

"You'll take a treble, an' the little boy 'ull do likewise, and I'll
take a fine, deep second. Ah! _I_ know 'ow to sing," said Mrs. Warren.

"You won't take little Ronald out on a dreadful sort o' day like this,"
said Connie.

"Wen I want yer adwice I'll ax fur it," said Mrs. Warren, with most
withering sarcasm.

Poor Connie felt her heart suddenly fit to burst. What new and dreadful
departure was this? Mrs. Warren now brought Ronald into the front room,
and there she arrayed him in garments of the poorest type, allowing his
little thin legs to be quite bare, and his very thin arms to show
through his ragged jacket. She posed, however, a little red cap on the
midst of his curly dark hair; and this cap most wonderfully became the
child, so that few people could pass him in the street without noticing
the sweetness of his angelic face. Then Mrs. Warren prepared herself for
the part she was to take. She went into her bedroom for the purpose, and
returned looking so exactly like a stout old beggar woman that the
children would scarcely have known her. She had covered her left eye
with a patch, and now only looked out on the world with her right one.
Her hair was knotted untidily under a frowsy old bonnet, and a very thin
shawl was bound across her ample breast.

"We'll do fine, I take it," she said to the children. "I am your mother,
my dears; you'll both 'old me by the 'and. Purtier little lambs couldn't
be seen than the two of yez. And ef poor, ugly Mammy Warren 'ave made
herself still uglier for yer sweet sakes, 'oo can but love 'er for the
ennoblin' deed? Wull, come along now, children; but first I'll build up
the fire, for we'll be 'ungry arter this 'ere job."

The fire was built up to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and the three went
downstairs. Ronald was quite speechless with shame--to go out like this,
to disgrace his brave father and his darling mother in this sort of
fashion, was pure torture to the boy; but Connie, in the thought of him
and the fear that he would take cold, almost forgot her own misery.

The three did not go anywhere by 'bus that day, but hurried down side
alleys and back streets until they got into the region of Piccadilly.
The children had not the least idea where they were. Suddenly, however,
they came to a pause outside a large hotel, and there Mrs. Warren struck
up the first note of "Home, Sweet Home."

She had timed everything well. The policeman was at the other end of his
beat, and she would not be molested for quite ten minutes. The
quavering, ugly notes of the old woman were well subdued, and Connie had
a really fine voice, and it rose high on the bitter air in sweet,
childish appeal and confidence. Ronald, too, was struck with a sudden
thought. That hotel was a sort of place where father used to live when
he was alive. Who could tell if his father himself might not have
returned, and might not be there, and might not hear him if he sang loud
enough and sweet enough?

The voice of the boy and the voice of the girl blended together, and
Mrs. Warren skilfully dropped hers so as not to spoil the harmony. The
people in the hotel were attracted by the sweet notes, and crowded to
the windows. Then Connie's face of purest beauty--Connie's face rendered
all the more pathetic by the old bonnet and the dreadful, tattered
dress--and Ronald with his head thrown back, his red cap held in his
hand, the white snow falling in flakes on his rich dark hair, made
between them a picture which would melt the hardest heart. Sixpences and
even shillings were showered from the windows, and as the last note of
"Home, Sweet Home" died away Mrs. Warren pocketed quite a considerable
harvest.

She and the children then moved on and did likewise before several other
large buildings, but they were not so successful again as they had been
with their first attempt. The police came back sooner than they were
expected. Ronald began to cough, too, and Connie's face looked blue with
cold. Mrs. Warren, however, was not disappointed. She spoke
encouragingly and protectingly to the children.

"Come 'ome, loveys," she said; "come 'ome, my little dears."

They did get home--or, rather, they got back to the dreadful house where
they were imprisoned--late in the afternoon, Ronald almost speechless
with cold and fatigue, Connie trembling also, and aching in every limb.

But now unwonted comforts awaited them. Mrs. Warren had no idea of
killing off these sources of wealth. She put Ronald into a hot bath, and
rubbed his limbs until they glowed, and then moved his little bed in
front of the fire and got him into it. Connie was also rubbed and dried
and desired to dispense with her beggar's toilet.

Afterwards there was quite a good dinner of roast pork with crackling
and apple sauce, and dreadful as their position was, both the poor
children enjoyed this meal as they had never enjoyed food before.

Thus a few days went by, the children going out every morning with Mrs.
Warren sometimes as beggar children, but sometimes again as children of
the well-to-do. These two programmes formed the most interesting part of
their little lives. For the rest of the day they sat huddled up
together, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, while each day a bigger
and bigger ache came into Ronald's heart. Why, oh why did not his father
come to fetch him?

But as all things come to an end, so the children's life in Mrs.
Warren's dreadful attics came to an abrupt conclusion.

One day, just as they were dressed to go out, there came a hurried knock
at the door. It seemed to Connie, who was very sharp and observant, that
Mrs. Warren did not much like the sound. She went to the door and,
before opening it, called out, "Who's there?"

"Agnes," was the reply; whereupon Mrs. Warren opened the door a few
inches, and Agnes squeezed in, immediately locking the door behind her.
She whispered something into Mrs. Warren's ear, which caused that good
woman to turn deadly white and stagger against the wall.

"Yer've no time to faint, ma'am," said Agnes. "'Ere--let me slap yer on
the back."

She gave two resounding whacks on Mrs. Warren's stout back, which caused
that woman to heave a couple of profound sighs and then to recover her
presence of mind.

She and Agnes then retired into her bedroom, where drawers were hastily
opened, and much commotion was heard by the two prettily dressed and
waiting children. In another minute or two Agnes came out alone.

"Wull," she said, "and 'ow be you, Connie?"

"I am all right," said Connie. "Where's Mammy Warren?"

"She's tuk bad, and won't want yer to go out a-walkin' with her to-day.
Oh my! oh my! how spry we be! It 'minds me o' the old song, 'As
Willikins were a-walkin' wid his Dinah one day.'"

"Agnes," said Connie, "I'm certain sure as there's some'ut wrong."

"Be yer now?" said Agnes. "Wull then, ye're mistook. Wot could be wrong?
Ye're a very queer and suspicious gel, Connie Harris--the most
suspicious as I hever see'd. Ye're just for all the world the most
selfish gel as could be found in the whole o' Lunnun. Pore Mammy Warren
was told of the sudden death of her sister, and that's all the sympathy
you guvs her. Wery different she behaves to you and Ronald. 'Hagnes,'
says she, 'tike those pore children for a run,' says she, 'and bring
them 'ome safe in time for dinner,' says she, 'an' give 'em some roast
mutton for dinner, poor darlin's,' says Mammy Warren; and then she falls
to cryin', and 'Oh, my sister!' she says, and 'Oh, poor Georgina!' she
sobs. Now then, the pair of yer--out we goes, and I'll go wid yer."

Quick as thought Agnes accomplished her purpose, and the two prettily
dressed children--Connie with her hair down her back, Ronald looking
like a little prince--found themselves in the street. But if the two
children thought that they had the slightest chance of running away they
were terribly mistaken, for Agnes proved even a sharper taskmistress
than Mrs. Warren. She seemed to Connie to have suddenly got quite old
and very cruel and determined. She walked the children here, and she
walked them there. They peered into shop windows and got into crowds,
but they did no shopping that morning. Connie was rather glad of that,
and now she was so accustomed to being stared at that she hardly took
any notice; while as to Ronald, his sweet brown eyes looked full up into
the face of every gentleman who passed, in the faint hope of discovering
his father again.

It seemed to Connie that they were out longer than usual; but at last
they did come back. Then, to their great surprise, they found the door
of Mammy Warren's sitting-room wide opened.

"My word! 'ow can this 'ave 'appened?" said Agnes.

They all went in, and Agnes went straight to the bedroom. She came out
presently, wearing a very grave face, and told the children that she
greatly feared poor Mammy Warren had gone off her head with grief--that
there wasn't a sign of her in the bedroom, nor anywhere in the house.

"And she's took her things, too," said Agnes. "Wull, now--wull, I must
go and search for her. Yer dinner's in the oven, children, and I'll come
back to see 'ow yer be sometime to-night, p'rhaps."

"Wull Mammy Warren come back to-night?" asked Connie.

"I don't know--maybe the poor soul is in the river by now. She wor took
wery bad, thinkin' of her sister, Georgina. I'll lock yer in, of course,
children, and yer can eat yer dinner and think o' yer mercies."




CHAPTER XII.

LEFT ALONE.


When Agnes went out the two children stared at each other.

"Connie," said Ronald, "I wish you'd tell me the real, real truth."

But Connie was trembling very much. "Don't yer ax me," she said. She
suddenly burst into tears. "I am so dreadfully frightened," she cried.
"I don't think I ever wor so frightened in all my life before. You're
not half so frightened as I am, Ronald."

"Of course not," said Ronald, "for I am a boy, you see, and I'll be a
man by-and-by. Besides, I have to think of father--father would have
gone through anything. Once he was in a shipwreck. The ship was really
wrecked, and a great many of the passengers were drowned. Father told me
all about it, but it was from a friend of father's that I learned
afterwards how splendid he was, saving--oh, heaps of people! It was that
night," continued Ronald, sitting down by the fire as he spoke, his eyes
glowing with a great thought, and his little face all lit up by the
fire-light--"it was that night that he first found out how much he
loved mother; for mother was in a great big Atlantic liner, and it was
father who saved her life. Afterwards they were married to each other,
and afterwards I came to them--God sent me, you know."

"Yus," said Connie.

She dried her eyes.

"Go on talking, Ronald," she said. "I never met a boy like you. I
thought there were no one like Giles, but it seems to me some'ow that
you're a bit better--you're so wonnerful, wonnerful brave, and 'ave such
a cunnin' way of talkin'. I s'pose that's 'cos you--you're a little
gen'leman, Ronald."

Ronald made no answer to this. After a minute he said:

"There's no thanks to me to be brave--that is, when I'm brave it's all
on account of father, and 'Like father, like son.' Mother used to teach
me that proverb when I was very small. Shall I tell you other things
that father did?"

"Oh yus, please," said Connie.

"He saved some people once in a great big fire. No one else had courage
to go in, but he wasn't afraid of anything. And another time he saved a
man on the field of battle. He got his V. C. for that."

"Wotever's a V. C.?" inquired Connie.

"Oh," said Ronald, "don't you even know that? How very ignorant you are,
dear Connie. A V. C.--why, it's better to be a Victoria Cross man than
to be the greatest noble in the land. Even the King couldn't be more
than a Victoria Cross man."

"Still, I don't understand," said Connie.

"It's an honor," said Ronald, "that's given for a very, very brave deed.
Father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his Victoria Cross;
then you'll know."

"Do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked Connie.

"He may come to-day," said Ronald--"or he may not," he added, with a
profound sigh.

The little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color
faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. He had coughed more or
less since that dreadful day when Mrs. Warren had taken him out in the
snowstorm. He was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad
fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship.

"Connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things,
isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?"

"What do yer mean by that?" asked Connie.

"Well, it's this way. You praise me for being brave. I am not brave
always; I am very frightened sometimes. I am very terribly frightened
now, dear Connie."

"Oh Ronald!" said Connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup."

"Let me tell you," said Ronald. He laid his little, thin hand on the
girl's arm. "It's about father. Do you think, Connie, that Mammy Warren
could have invented that story about him?"

"I dunno," said Connie.

"But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think."

"Tell me what you think, Ronald."

"I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as
though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain
he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that
he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the
landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am
his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't
believe he could do that kind of thing."

"Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as
though Agnes spoke the truth."

"I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd
never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin."

"Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her
heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father
coming to fetch him.

"She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to
go to the country--perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the
sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would
be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be
unselfish, and never to make a fuss--he hated boys who made a fuss. Oh
yes, I did believe it; and on Saturday night and on Sunday, when Big Ben
talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would
soon be with me. But a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. Why, it's
Saturday night again, Connie. I've been back again in this house for a
whole week now, and father has never, never come."

"Maybe he'll come to-night," said Connie.

"I don't think so; somehow I'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was
coming back."

"What do yer mean by that?" said Connie.

"Oh, I'd be springy-like and jumpy about. But I'm not. I feel--oh, so lazy
and so--so tired! and a little bit--yes, a greatbit--frightened--terribly
frightened."

"You must cheer up, Ronald," said Connie. Then she added, "I wish we
could get out o' this. I wish I could pick the lock and get aw'y."

"Oh, I wish you could, Connie," said the child. "Couldn't you try?"

"I'm a'most afeered to go into Mammy Warren's room," said Connie; "for
ef she did come back and see me any time, she'd punish me awful; but
p'r'aps I might find tools for picking the lock in her room."

"Oh, do let's try!" said Ronald.

Connie half-rose, then sat down again.

"It's me that's the coward now," she said.

"Oh, how so, Connie?"

"'Cos," said Connie, "there's that dark room with no winder--'tain't a
dream, Ronald."

"I thought it wasn't," said Ronald, turning white.

"No--it's there," said Connie, "and I'm afeered o' it."

Ronald sat very still for a minute then. He was thinking hard. He was
only a little boy of ten years old, but he was a very plucky one. He
looked at Connie, who although a little older than he, was very slight
and small for her age.

"Connie," he said, "if you and I are ever to make our escape we must not
be frightened. Even the dark closet won't frighten me now. _I_ am going
into Mrs. Warren's room."

"Oh Ronald! Are you? Dare you?"

"Yes, I dare. Father did worse things than that--why should I be
afraid?"

"You'd win the V. C., Ronald, wouldn't you, now?"

Ronald smiled.

"Not for such a little, little thing. But perhaps some day," he said;
and his eyes looked very bright. "Connie, if we can unpick the lock and
get the door open, where shall we go?"

"We'll go," said Connie in a brisk voice, "back to Father John as fast
as ever we can."

"Father John," said Ronald--"who is he?"

"I told you, Ronnie--I told you about him."

"I forgot for a minute," said Ronald. "You mean the street preacher."

"Yus," said Connie. "'E'll save us. There's no fear o' Mammy Warren
getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and."

Ronald smiled.

"The only thing I'm afraid of is this," he said--"that if it's true
about father, he may come here and find me gone."

"Let's leave a note for him," said Connie then. "Let's put it on the
table. If Mammy Warren should come back she'll find the note, but that
won't do any harm, for she knows Father John, and she's awful afeered of
him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there."

"The very thing!" said Ronald. "Let's get some paper. Will you write the
note, Connie?"

The children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very
thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. Ronald dictated,
and Connie wrote:

"DEAR FATHER,--I've waited here for a week. I am trying to be very
brave. Connie's an awful nice girl. We've picked the lock here, father,
and we've gone to Father John, in Adam Street. Please come quick, for
your little boy is so very hungry for you. Come quick, darling
father.--Your little waiting boy, RONALD."

"That'll bring him," said Ronald. "We'll put it on the table."

Connie had written her letter badly, and there were several blots; but
still a feat was accomplished. Her cheeks were bright with excitement
now.

"What shall I put outside?" she asked--"on the envelope, I mean."

Ronald thought for a minute; then he said in a slow and impressive
voice:

"To Major Harvey, V. C., from Ronald."

"Nobody can mistake who it's meant for," said Ronald.

"Here's a bit of sealing-wax," said Connie. "Let's seal it."

They did so, Connie stamping the seal with a penny thimble which she
took out of her pocket.

"And now," said Ronald, pulling himself up, "all is ready, and I am
going into Mammy Warren's room to try and find tools for picking the
lock."

"I'm a-goin' with yer," said Connie.

"Oh Connie, that is brave of you."

"No," said Connie, "it 'ud be real cowardly to let yer go alone."

Hand in hand the two children crossed the ugly sitting-room, and opened
the door which led into that mysterious apartment known as Mammy
Warren's room. It certainly was a very strange-looking place. There was
no bed to be seen anywhere, which in itself was surprising. But Connie
explained to Ronald that the huge wooden wardrobe was doubtless a
press-bed which let down at night.

"She'd keep all kinds of things at the back of the bed," said the
practical Connie, who had seen several similar arrangements in the
houses of the poor.

This room, however, although ugly and dark--very dark--seemed to be
suspiciously bare. The children had turned on the gas--for evening had
already arrived--and they could see with great distinctness.

Mammy Warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one
ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. The children
therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger.
Connie, however, assured Ronald that she could put out the light and be
innocently seated by the fire if Mammy Warren did arrive unexpectedly.

All was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to
resume their search. The chest of drawers stood with all its drawers
open and each one of them empty. No sort of tool could the children
find. The yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the
disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. There
was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the
dress. Otherwise there was not a scrap of anything whatever in the room
except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open,
and the empty chest of drawers.

"But here," said Connie, "is a door. P'rhaps it's a cupboard door."

"Let's try if it will open," said Ronald.

He turned the handle. The door shot back with a spring, and the boy's
face turned pale.

"The dark closet!" said Connie. "The dark, dark room without a winder!"

Ronald caught hold of Connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. After a
minute he said in a husky voice:

"Come away."

Connie shut the mysterious closet door. The children turned out the gas
in Mammy Warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. Here they
crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire.

"Don't, Ronnie--don't," said Connie.

"Hold me very tight, Connie," said the little boy.

She did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. After
a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a sturdy tone:

"Now I am better. It was wrong of me to be so frightened."

"Hark--there's the Woice!" said Connie.

They sat very still while Big Ben proclaimed the hour of nine.

"What does he say?" asked Ronald, turning round and looking at Connie.

"I know," said Connie, a light on her pretty face. "Father John preached
on it once. I know wot Big Ben's a-sayin' of to-night."

"Tell me," said Ronald.

"_He that shall endure_," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," repeated
Ronald--"'He that shall endure'----"

"_To the end_," said Connie, "_shall be saved_," she added.

"Oh Connie!" cried the boy. "Do you really, really think so?"

"Father John says it, and Father John couldn't tell a lie," continued
the girl. "He says that is one of God's promises, and God never made a
mistake. 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'"

"Then," said Ronald, "if _we_ endure _we_ shall be saved."

"Yes," replied Connie.

"You're not frightened, then?"

"Not after that," said Connie.

"How can you tell that _was_ what Big Ben said?"

"'Eard him," said Connie.

She unclasped Ronald's arms from her neck and stood up.

"I'm better," she said; "I'm not frightened no more. Sometimes it's 'ard
to endure--Father John says it is. But ''E that _shall_ endure to the
end'--to the _end_--he made a great p'int o' that--'shall be saved.'"

"Then _we'll_ be saved," said Ronald.

"Yus," answered Connie.

She looked down at the little boy. The boy was gazing into the fire and
smiling. Connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into
a cheerful blaze. It did not matter at all to the good coal whether it
burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do
its duty, it did it. Now gay little flames and cheerful bursts of
bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright.

"W'y, it's long past tea!" said Connie. "I'll put on the kettle and
we'll have our tea, Ronald. Maybe Aggie'll be back in a minute, and
maybe she'd like a cup o' tea."

Connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the
provisions. These were exceedingly short. There was little more than a
heel of very stale bread, and no butter, and only a scrape of jam; but
there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little
coarse brown sugar in a cup.

Connie laid the table quite cheerfully.

"We'll toast the bread," she said. "Tea and toast is famous food."

She got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and Ronald laughed and even
joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp
and tempting-looking.

"I'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with
Mammy Warren," said Connie.

"Yes, Connie," said the boy; "so would I."

They had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small
circumstance. They scraped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on
the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost.

Ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did
not even give it a thought. But Connie remembered it well, although she
took care not to allude to it.

Ten o'clock struck, and still Agnes did not appear. Eleven, twelve--and
no sign either of Mammy Warren or the girl.

"Shall we go to bed?" said Ronald.

"Let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said Connie, "in this
room. Some'ow I don't think as Mammy Warren 'ull come back to-night. She
wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she,
Ronald?"

"I don't know," said Ronald. He was very sleepy, for the hour was
terribly late for so young a child to be awake.

After a little reflection Connie decided only to drag his bed into the
front room. She could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a
blanket. The fire was built up with the last scrap of coal in the hod,
and then Ronald lay down without undressing. Connie begged of him to
take off his clothes, but he said to her:

"Maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. I somehow feel as if
something must happen to-night, and I don't want not to be ready."

Connie therefore only removed his shoes. She tucked the blankets round
him, and said, "Good-night, Ronnie."

"What is that verse?" asked Ronald again. "'He that shall endure to the
end'----"

"'Shall be saved,'" finished Connie.

When she came to these words she noticed that little Ronald was sound
asleep. Connie changed her mind about lying down. She sat on the floor
by the boy's side, laid her head on the pillow close to his, and also
dropped asleep.

Big Ben called out the hour but the children slept. Perhaps the Voice
spoke to them in their dreams, for they smiled now and then. Doubtless
they were far away in those dreams from the dreadful attic, from the
influence of a most cruel woman, from hunger and cold. The fire burned
to a fine red glow, and then cooled down and grew gray and full of
ashes, and eventually went out. For it had burned its heart out trying
to help the children; and without a heart, even fire cannot keep alive.

But the two children slept on, although Ronald now stirred uneasily and
coughed in his sleep. It seemed to Connie that she also was oppressed by
something, as though a great and terrible nightmare were sitting on her
chest. Ronald coughed louder and opened his eyes.

"Connie, Connie--where are we?" he cried.

Connie sat up with a stare.

"I be stiff," she began, "and--and cold. Wotever's the hour? Bide a bit,
Ronald, and I'll find the matches and turn on the gas."

"What's the matter with the room?" said Ronald.

"I don't know nothing," said Connie.

"My eyes smart," said Ronald, "and I can't breathe."

"I feel queer too," said Connie. "I won't be a second finding out,
though. You lie quiet."

She groped about, found a match-box, which still contained a few
matches, struck a light, and applied it to the gas, which was at full
pressure now, and roared out, making a great flame.

"W'y, the room's full o' smoke," said Connie. "Wottever can it be?"

Ronald sat up in bed, opening his eyes.

"Where does it come from?" he said. "The fire is out."

Just then Big Ben proclaimed the hour of three.

"He that shall endure," thought Connie. "To the end," darted through
Ronald's mind; and just then both children heard an unmistakable and
awful roar. Was it the roar of human voices or the roar of something
else--a devouring and awful element? Connie turned white. Now, if ever,
was the time to be brave.

"I'll open the winder and look out," she said.

She sprang towards it and, with a great effort, pushed it half up. The
moment she did so, the noise from without came louder, and the noise
from within was more deafening.

"Fire! fire!" shouted a multitude of people from below in the street;
and "Fire! fire!" cried the frenzied inhabitants of the old
tenement-house. Connie and Ronald were on the top story. Connie went
back to Ronald.

"The house is on fire, Ronnie!" she said. "But we mustn't be frightened,
either of us; we must think of the grand verse, and of what Big Ben
said. Big Ben's an angel, you mind; Giles knows all about that."

"Oh yes," said Ronald, his teeth chattering; for the draught from the
open window, although it relieved his breathing, made him intensely
cold. "It's a beautiful verse, isn't it, Connie?" he continued.

"Yus," said Connie. "Let's get to the winder, Ronnie dear. We'll call
out. There are people down in the street. The fire-engines 'ull be on in
a minute; we'll be saved, in course."

"Oh, of course," said Ronnie. He staggered to the floor, and put his
feet into his shoes. "A good thing I wasn't undressed," he said.

"Yus," said Connie. "Now, let's get to the winder."

The children staggered there. The smoke was getting more dense; the room
was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating
thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a
minute, and then quickly drew it back.

"There's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "I wish as the
firemen 'ud come."

The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the
flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly
audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in
brass helmets: the brave firemen--members of the noblest brigade in the
world--were on the spot.

"It's hall right," said Connie. "They've come. Don't yer be a bit
frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see
him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_Es_ father were one. Oh, there's no
fear now that they've come!"

She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders.
Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The
hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no
purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within?

"No," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my
last biby--bless him!"

She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep.

But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for
themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life.

"Has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. He
had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic
frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of
fireman.

Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with
her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her
hand, were both distinctly seen.

"My God!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. Put the
escape up at once--don't lose an instant--I am going up to them."

"You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices
were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed
that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in
London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.

"That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said
once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went--up and
up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out
behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might
fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the
window-ledge.

"Courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "Hold tight--I'll be there in a
minute!"

"The window is so hot!" gasped Connie.

"Think--think of the Voice," whispered Ronald.

He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all
earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and
his mother would meet him. But this was not to be.

In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their
perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured.
Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They
were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though
she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire.

People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up.

"What is your name?" he said to Connie.

"Connie," she replied.

"Well, Connie," he answered, "it was the sight of your beautiful face in
the window that gave me courage to save yer. Now, do you want to have a
shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?'

"Thank you, sir," said Connie. The man pulled a card--it looked just
like a gentleman's visiting card--out of his pocket.

"Will you take that," he said, "to No. 12 Carlyle Terrace? It's just
round the corner. Take your little brother with you. There are two bells
to the house. Look for the one that has the word 'Night' written under
it. It used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. My
mother will understand--give her that card, and tell her what has
happened. Good night."

He turned away. It was some time before Connie and Ronald could get rid
of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two
pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. Offers of a
shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to
Connie from all sorts of people. But she had made up her mind to follow
out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that she had friends
at No. 12 Carlyle Terrace, she and Ronald soon started off to go to the
address the fireman had given them.

They were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone
through at first, but when they reached the house, and Connie pressed
the button of the bell which had the word "Night" written under it, she
was trembling exceedingly.

"Why are we coming here?" asked Ronald.

"I dunno," said Connie. "Seems as though a hangel was with us all the
time."

"I expect so," answered Ronald in a very weak voice.

"And," continued Connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere."

They had pressed the bell, and quickly--wonderfully quickly--they heard
steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall
woman--very tall and very thin--with a beautiful pale face and soft
motherly eyes.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is the matter? Oh, my poor little dears!
And how you smell of fire! Have you been in a fire?"

"Please, ma'am," said Connie, "be yer the mother o' Mr. George
Anderson--the bravest fireman, ma'am? He told me to give yer this card,
ma'am."

"I am Mrs. Anderson. Oh, of course, if he's sent you----"

"_'E_ saved us from the fire, ma'am," said Connie.

"Come in, you poor little things," said Mrs Anderson. She drew the
children in; she shut the door behind them. It seemed to Connie when
that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for
within the house there was warmth--not only warmth for frozen little
bodies, but for tired souls.

Mrs. Anderson was one of the most motherly women in London; and George,
her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her.

Soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water,
and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen
sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. But Mrs. Anderson sat by them
both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face,
and felt very much afraid of the shock for him.

"The little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "She's a
beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. She has been
accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's
different--he's a gentleman by birth. Something very cruel has happened
to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw."

Mrs. Anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little
Ronald were all too quickly realized. By the morning the boy was in a
high state of fever. A doctor was summoned, and Mrs. Anderson herself
nursed him day and night. Connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her
request was granted.

"For the present you shall stay with me," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't
know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but I am
determined to save his life if I can."

"I can tell yer something," said Connie. "Little Ronald's a real
gent--_'e's_ the son of a hofficer in 'Is Majesty's harmy, an' the
hofficer's name is Major Harvey, V. C."

"What?" cried Mrs. Anderson. She started back in amazement. "Why, I knew
him and his wife," she said. "I know he was killed in South Africa, and
I know his dear wife died about a year ago. Why, I've been looking for
this child. Is your story quite true, little girl?"

"Yus, it's quite true," said Connie. "But tell me--do tell me--is his
father really dead?"

"I fear so. It is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but
he has been missing for over two years."

"Ma'am," said Connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein'
confirmed?"

"I mean this, little girl," said Mrs. Anderson--"that his body was never
found."

"Then he ain't dead," said Connie.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel it in my bones," said Connie, "same as Ronald felt it in his
bones. _'E_ ain't dead."

Mrs. Anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair.

"I am getting in a real trained nurse to look after Ronald Harvey," she
said. "If he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care
now; and you this evening, little Connie, shall tell me your story."

This Connie did. When she had described all that had occurred to her
during the last few weeks, Mrs. Anderson was so amazed that she could
hardly speak.

"My poor child!" she said. "You can't guess what terrible dangers you've
escaped. That dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large
gang of burglars. Several have been arrested within the last day or two,
and I have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts."

"Burglars?" said Connie--"burglars? Them be thieves, bean't they?"

"Yes--thieves."

"But what could she do with us?" said Connie.

"She used you for her own purposes. While people were looking at you,
she was doubtless picking their pockets. Don't think any more about it,
dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. And now, don't you feel
very anxious about your father and your old friends?"

"Yus," said Connie. "I'd like to go home. I'd like them to know once for
all what happened."

"Would you like to go back to-night? You can return to me, you know. I
shall be up with Ronald until far into the night."

Connie rose swiftly.

"You're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?"

"Oh no, ma'am. I'm only quite an ordinary girl. I ha' learnt my
lesson," continued Connie. "I were real discontent wid my life at the
factory, but I'll be discontent no more."

"You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think God wants you to
be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't
have let you go through so much."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave."




CHAPTER XIII.

PETER HARRIS.


While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's
attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly
distracted about her.

Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of
drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has
been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for
Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his
sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty,
motherless girl.

As day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic
with anxiety. At first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance,
saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when
a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and Sue assured him
that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in Cheapside
where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last
with Agnes Coppenger, and that Agnes Coppenger had also disappeared from
her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had
happened.

Father John was consulted, and Father John advised the necessity of at
once acquainting the police. But although the police did their best,
they could get no trace whatever either of Agnes or of Connie.

Thus the days passed, and Connie's friends were very unhappy about her.
Her absence had a bad effect on Peter, who, from his state of grief and
uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace
which he was fond of frequenting. Every night now he came home tipsy,
and the neighbors were afraid to go near. Soon he began to abuse Connie,
to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any
neighbor who mentioned her name.

Giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of Big
Ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship
of pretty Connie. But now at last the girl herself was going home. She
had no fear. She was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. How often
she had longed for her father! Connie had a great deal of imagination,
and during the dreadful time spent at Mother Warren's, and in especial
since Ronald had come, she began to compare her father with Ronald's,
and gradually but surely to forget the cruel and terrible scenes when
that father was drunk, and to think of him only in his best moments when
he kissed her and petted her and called her his dear little motherless
girl.

Oh, he would be glad to see her now! He would rejoice in her company.

Connie quickly found the old house in Adam Street, and ran up the
stairs. One or two people recognized her, and said, "Hullo, Con! you
back?" but being too busy with their struggle for life, did not show any
undue curiosity.

"Is my father in?" asked Connie of one.

The man said, "He be." And then he added, "Yer'd best be careful. He
ain't, to say, in his pleasantest mood to-night."

Connie reached the well-known landing. She turned the handle of the
door. It was locked. She heard some one moving within. Then a rough
voice said:

"Get out o' that!"

"It's me, father!" called Connie back. "It's Connie!"

"Don't want yer--get away!" said the voice.

Connie knelt down and called through the keyhole:

"It's me--I've 'ad a dreadful time--let me in."

"Go 'way--don't want yer--get out o' this!"

"Oh father--father!" called Connie. She began to sob. After all her
dreams, after all her longings, after all her cruel trials--to be
treated like this, and by her father! It seemed to shake her very belief
in fathers, even in the great Father of all.

"Please--please--I'm jest wanting yer awfu' bad!" she pleaded.

Her gentle and moving voice--that voice for which Peter Harris, when
sober and in his right mind, so starved to hear again--now acted upon
him in quite the opposite direction. He had not taken enough to make him
stupid, only enough to rouse his worst passions. He strode across the
room, flung the door wide, and lifting Connie from her knees, said to
her:

"Listen. You left me without rhyme or reason--not even a word or a
thought. I sorrowed for yer till I turned to 'ate yer! Now then, get out
o' this. I don't want yer, niver no more. Go down them stairs, unless
yer want me to push yer down. Go 'way--and be quick!"

There was a scowl on his angry face, a ferocious look in his eyes.
Connie turned quite gently, and without any apparent anger went
downstairs.

"Ah!" said a man in the street, "thought yer wouldn't stay long."

"He's wery bad," said Connie. She walked slowly, as though her heart
were bleeding, down Adam Street until she came to the house where Father
John Atkins lived.

It was a little house, much smaller than its neighbors. Father John's
room was on the ground floor. She knocked at the door. There was no
answer. She turned the handle: it yielded to her pressure. She went in,
sank down on the nearest chair, and covered her face with both her
hands.

She was trembling exceedingly. The shock of her father's treatment was
far greater than she could well bear in her present weak and
over-excited condition. She had gone through--oh, so much--so very much!
That awful time with Mammy Warren; her anxiety with regard to little
Ronald; and then that final, awful, never-to-be-forgotten day, that
night which was surely like no other night that had ever dawned on the
world--the noise of the gathering flames, the terrific roar they made
through the old building; the shouts of the people down below; the heat,
the smoke, the pain, the cruel, cruel fear; and then last but not
least--the deliverance!

When that gallant fireman appeared, it seemed to both Connie and Ronald
as though the gates of heaven had opened, and they had been taken
straight away from the pains of hell into the glories of the blest. But
all these things told on the nerves, and when Connie now had been turned
away from her father's door, she was absolutely unfit for such
treatment.

When she reached Father John's she was as weak and miserable a poor
little girl as could found anywhere in London.

"My dear! my dear!" said the kind voice--the sort of voice that always
thrilled the hearts of those who listened to him. A hand was laid on the
weeping girl's shoulder. "Look up," said the voice again. Then there was
a startled cry, an exclamation of the purest pleasure.

"Why Connie--my dear Connie--the good Lord has heard our prayers and has
sent you back again!"

"Don't matter," said Connie, sobbing on, quite impervious to the
kindness, quite unmoved by the sympathy. "There ain't no Father 'chart
'eaven," she continued. "I don't believe in 'Im no more. There ain't no
Father, and no Jesus Christ. Ef there were, my own father wouldn't treat
me so bitter cruel."

"Come, Connie," said the preacher, "you know quite well that you don't
mean those dreadful words. Sit down now by the cosy fire; sit in my own
little chair, and I'll talk to you, my child. Why, Connie, can't you
guess that we've been praying for you?"

"Don't matter," whispered Connie again.

The preacher looked at her attentively. He put his kind hand for a
minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which
he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for
the time being. Connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was
worn-out. He got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden
head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee--strong
coffee--both for her and himself.

It was late, and he was deadly tired. He had been up all the night
before. It was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion;
for, as he was fond of expressing it, the Divine Master seemed to have
more work for him to do at night than in the daytime.

"There are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought Father
John, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about.
If I can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul,
surely that is the best night's rest I can attain to."

Last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. He had found her on a
doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender
frame, to drag her upstairs. There her terrified children met him. He
managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to
help him for all they were worth. The great, bulky woman was undressed
and put into bed. She slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded
round. He made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in
the morning.

He did so. The woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. He
spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to
go with him to take the pledge. He then gave her a little money out of
his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest
of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. She had been thrown
out of work by her misdemeanors; but Father John was a power, and more
than one lady promised to try Mrs. Simpkins once again. The little
preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. He bent over Connie.
She drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer
herself.

"Now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. Why did you run
away?"

"'Cos I were tired o' machine-work. But, oh, Father John! I niver, niver
meant to stay aw'y. I jest thought as I were to get a nice new
situation; I niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." Connie then told her
story, with many gaps and pauses.

"You see," said Father John when she had finished, "that when you took
the management of your own life into your own hands you did a very
dangerous thing. God was guiding you, and you thought you could do
without Him. You have been punished."

"Yus," said Connie. "I'll niver be the same again."

"I hope, indeed, that you will not be the same. You have gone through
marvellous adventures, and but for God Himself you would not now be in
the world. It is not only your pain and misery that you have to
consider, but you have also to think of the pain and misery you
inflicted on others."

"No," said Connie defiantly, "that I won't do. I thought father 'ud
care, but he turned me from 'ome."

"He did care, Connie. I never knew any one so distracted. He cared so
terribly, and was so sore about you, that he took to drink to drown his
pain. In the morning, when he is sober, you will see what a welcome he
will give you."

"No," said Connie, shaking her head.

"But I say he will. He will help you, and he will be a father to you. I
will take you to him myself in the morning."

Connie did not say anything more. When she had finished her coffee, the
preacher suggested that he should take her to Sue and Giles. The girl
looked at him wildly. In telling her story, she had never mentioned the
name of the lady who had taken her in, nor the name of the brave fireman
who had befriended her. But now Father John boldly asked her for these
particulars. Her little face flushed and she looked up defiantly.

"I dunnut want to give 'em," she said.

"But I ask you for them, Connie," said the preacher.

Connie could no more withstand Father John's authoritative tone than she
could fly. After a minute's pause she did tell what she knew, and Father
John wrote Mrs. Anderson's address down in his note-book.

"Now then, Connie," he said, rising, "you're better. Sue and Giles will
be so glad to see you once more! Come, dear; let me take you to them."

Connie stood up. There was a curious, wild light in her eyes; but she
avoided looking at the street preacher, and he did not observe it. Had
he done so he would have been more careful.

The two went out into the street together. It was now getting really
late. The distance between the preacher's room and the humble lodgings
where Sue and Giles lived was no great way, but to reach the home of the
little Giles they had to pass some very ill-favored courts. At one of
these Connie suddenly saw a face she knew. She started, trembling, and
would have fled on had not a hand been raised to warning lips. The
preacher at that instant was stopped by a man who wanted to ask him a
question with regard to a child of his whom Father John was trying to
find employment for.

Before he knew what had happened, Connie's hand was dragged from his.
The girl uttered a slight cry, and the next minute was enveloped in the
darkness of one of the worst courts in the whole of London.

"Quiet--quiet!" said a voice. "Don't you let out one sound or you'll
niver speak no more. It's me--Agnes. I won't do yer no 'arm ef ye're
quiet. Come along with me now."

Connie went, for she could not do anything else. Her feelings were
absolutely confused. She did not know at that fearful moment whether she
was glad or sorry to be back with Agnes Coppenger again. She only felt a
sense of relief at having slipped away from Father John, and at having,
as she thought, parted from her own cruel father.

"Oh Agnes!" she whispered, "hide me; and don't--don't take me back to
Mammy Warren!"

"Bless yer!" said Agnes, "she's coped by the perlice. Mammy Warren's
awaiting her trial in the 'Ouse of Detention; yer won't be worried by
her no more."

"W'ere are yer taking me, then, Agnes?"

"'Ome--to my 'ouse, my dear."

"Yer'll promise to let me go in the morning?"

"Safe an' sure I will--that is, ef yer want to go."

Agnes was now walking so fast that Connie had the utmost difficulty in
keeping up with her. She seemed all the time to be dodging, getting into
shadows, avoiding lights, turning rapidly round corners, making the most
marvellous short cuts, until at last--at last--she reached a very tall
house, much taller than the one where Mammy Warren had lived. She made a
peculiar whistle when she got there. The door was opened by a boy of
about Connie's age.

"'Ere we be, Freckles," said Agnes; "and I ha' got the beautiful and
saintly Connie back again."

"Hurrah for saintly Connie!" cried Freckles.

The two girls were dragged in by a pair of strong hands, and Connie
found herself in utter darkness, descending some slippery stairs--into
what depths she had not the slightest idea.

"These are the cellars," said Agnes when at last a door was flung open,
and she found herself in a very poorly lit apartment with scarcely any
furniture. "You was in hattics before," continued Agnes; "now ye're in
the cellars. Yer didn't greatly take to kind Mammy Warren, but perhaps
yer'll like Simeon Stylites better. He's a rare good man is Simeon--wery
pious too. He sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to
live accordin'. He ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things
heasy."

Connie sat down.

"I'm that frightened!" she said. Agnes began to laugh.

"Sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. Simeon's a real feeling man,
and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be
purty."

Agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate.
There seemed to be abundance of coal. She built the fire up high, and
when it roared up the chimney she desired Connie to draw near.

"You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began.

"Don't talk of it," said Connie.

"I guess as I won't--yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?"

"I dunno."

Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said,

"Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman.
The fireman--'e's a real 'andsome man--I can tike to that sort myself.
The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave
the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional."

"Perfessional?" said Connie.

"Yus--ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll
be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything
of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread."

"I don't understand," said Connie.

"Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think
Mammy Warren wanted yer for?"

"I never could tell, only Mrs. Anderson said----"

"Yus--tell us wot she said. She's a torf--let's get _'er_ idees on the
subjeck."

"I won't tell yer," said Connie.

"Oh--_that's_ yer little gime! Wull--I don't keer--I'll tell yer from my
p'int o' view. Mammy Warren wanted yer--not for love--don't think no
sech thing--but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. W'ile
she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an'
w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. She
'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. But he tuk ill, an' then she
had to get some sort, an' I told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were,
an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'Her golden 'air was 'angin' down her
back,' I sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. Then I got yer
for her--you knows 'ow. Wull, pore Mammy Warren! she's in quad for the
present. But she'll come out agin none the worse; bless yer! they feeds
'em fine in quad now. Many a one as I know goes in reg'lar for the cold
weather. You see, we'n yer gets yer lodgin' an' yer food at Government
expense, it don't cost yer nothing, an' yer come out none the worse.
That's wot Mammy Warren 'ull do. But Simeon Stylites-'e's a man 'oo
prides himself on niver 'avin' been tuk yet. He'll teach yer 'ow to be a
perfessional. Now then--yer ain't frightened, be yer?"

"No," said Connie. Once again she was the old Connie. She had got over
her anguish of despair and grief about her father's conduct. She must
get out of this, and the only chance was to let Agnes think that she
didn't mind.

"Yer'll make a _beautiful_ perfessional!" said Agnes, looking at her
with admiration now. "I could--I could grovel at yer feet--pore me, so
plain as I ham an' hall, an' you so wery genteel. There now, 'oo's that
a-knockin' at the door?"

Agnes went to the door. She opened it about an inch, and had a long
colloquy with some one outside.

"All right, Freckles," she said, "you can go to bed."

She then came back to Connie.

"Simeon ain't returning afore to-morrer," she said. "We'll tike to our
beds. Come along with me, Connie."




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SEARCH.


When Connie had been suddenly dragged with extreme force from the
preacher's side, he had darted after her, and would have been knocked
down himself, and perhaps killed, if the neighbor who had accosted him
had not also gone a step or two into the dark alley and dragged him
back by main force.

"You don't go down there, Father John," he said--"not without two or
three big men, as big as myself. That you don't--I'll keep you back,
Father John by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be
killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?"

Father John acknowledged the justice of this. A crowd of men and women
had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest
disturbance. Father John recognized many of them, and soon formed a
little body of strong men and women. The policemen also came to their
aid. They searched the blind alley, going into every house. In short,
they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor Connie; but, alas!
all in vain.

Father John was at least glad that he had not gone to visit Sue and
Giles. He could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that
poor Connie had come home and had been kidnapped again.

"We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about
here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren,
we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father
John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out."

Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early--very
early--in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had
slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a
queer feeling that something very bad had happened.

When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream--I must be mistook, of course,
but I thought Connie had come back."

"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."

"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown
himself, and pushed back his rough hair.

"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have
a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"

"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o'
breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"

All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.

"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say
so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"

"You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice.
"She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you--you turned her away,
Peter Harris."

"I did wot?" said Harris.

"You turned her off--yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too
much and didn't know what you were doing."

The man's face was ghastly pale.

"What do yer mean?" he said.

"You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in
bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I assured her that I
know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome
her home in the morning."

"Well, and so I be. Welcome my lass home? There ain't naught I wouldn't
do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear,
sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave--the Prodigal didn't
have a bigger welcome."

"But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin.
Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong,
perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She
was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because of you; for you were
so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. I'll
tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare;
you must get up and help to find her."

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

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