Before Faith had been gone quite half an hour her father returned. This was an unusual proceeding, for generally he spent his Sunday afternoons in a working men’s club round the corner. He was one of the most influential members of this club – its most active and stirring representative. He organised meetings, got up debates, and did, in short, those thousand and one things which an energetic, clever man can do to put fire and life into such proceedings. He had come home now to draw up the minutes of a new organisation which he and a few other kindred spirits were about to form.

It was to be a society in every way based on the laws of justice and reason. Religious, and yet allowing all harmless and innocent amusements both for Sundays and weekdays; temperate, but permitting the use of beer and wine in moderation.

Warden felt very virtuous and very useful as he sat down with pen and paper before him. No one could say of him that he spent his time for nought. How blameless and good and excellent was his life! Never, never would it be necessary for those lips to cry to his Maker, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”

A little restless movement, and faint, satisfied baby sigh from the sofa, interrupted these self-satisfied meditations. He looked round and saw little Roy. “Bless us! is the child there? and wherever is Faith?” he said to himself.

He got up and approached his little boy. The child was looking as beautiful as such a lovely creature would look in his sleep. Warden went on his knees to watch him more earnestly. Yes; the golden-brown eyelashes, the tangled mass of bright hair, the full pouting lips, the rounded limbs, made up a picture which might well cause any father’s heart to beat with love and pride; and doubtless there was much of both in Warden’s soul just then. He gazed long and earnestly. Before he rose to his feet he even bent and kissed the little flushed cheek.

“Yes,” he said to himself; “he’s a very, very lovely boy. If ever a man had cause for ambition I have. With God’s help, that boy shall take his place with any gentleman in the land before I die.”

He sat down again by his table, but instead of continuing his work he remained for a time, one hand partly shading his eyes, while he indulged in a meditation. Yes; he must save as much money as possible; for Roy’s education must begin early. Roy must have this, Roy must have that. He did not think of Faith at all. Faith was but a girl. He began to consider by what means he could add to his earnings, by what means he could retrench his present expenses. The rooms they now lived in were comfortable, but far from cheap. Ought they not to go into poorer lodgings? for now they spent all he earned, and where, if that was so, would be the money to put little Roy to school by-and-by?

In the midst of these thoughts, the door was pushed softly open, and a man’s face appeared. It just appeared above the frame of the door, and looked in with timid, bloodshot eyes.

“I cannot assist you, Peter Davis,” called out Warden in his full, loud tones. “There’s no manner of use in your waiting here. You know my opinion of such conduct as yours.”

“Yes; but I means to reform – I do indeed,” replied Davis. He had so far gathered courage now as to advance a step or two into the room. “’Tis h’all so ’ard on a feller. When he’s down h’every one throws a stone at him. I’m h’ever so sorry fur givin’ way to the drink, and I’m goin’ to take the pledge – I am indeed.”

“It is disgusting, any man drinking himself into the condition of a beast – lower, far lower than a beast,” answered Warden, in his most bitter tones. “There now, Davis, you know my opinion. I am pleased, however, to hear you mean to change your ways.”

“Yes, indeed, indeed I do – Mr – Mr Warden; and wot I made bold to come yere fur were to axe ef you’d may be help me. I don’t mean fur myself, but fur the poor wife. The wife, her ’ad a little ’un last night, and we h’an’t never a sup nor a bite in the house. I thought, may be, Mr – Mr Warden, as seeing we belonged to the werry same club, as you’d may be let me have the loan of five shillings, or even harf-a-crown, jest one harf-crown, and returned most faithful, Mr Warden.”

Warden laughed loudly.

“No; not a shilling, nor a sixpence,” he said. “I never encourage drunkards; and as to your belonging to our club, you won’t have that to say long unless you mend yer ways.”

“But ’tis fur the wife,” continued Davis. “The wife, as honest a body as h’ever breathed, and she’s starving. No, no, it h’aint, h’indeed it ain’t, to spend on drink. I’m none so low as that comes to. I won’t spend a penny of it on drink. Oh! Mr Warden, the wife and the new-born babe is a dying of hunger. Lend us jest one shilling, h’even one shilling, for the love of h’Almighty God! How ’ud you like ef yer h’own little lad there were starving?”

“Look here,” said Warden, rising to his feet. “I’m busy, and I can’t be interrupted. If you don’t leave the room at once I must just put you out I may as well tell you plainly that I don’t believe a word you say, and not one farthing will you ever get from me.”

“Then God furgive yer fur the werry ’ardest man I h’ever met,” said poor Davis. “I think,” he added, “as I’d as lief ’ave my chance wid the h’Almighty as yourn, when h’all is reckoned up. I never, never heerd as you did a real kind thing in yer life, and I pity them children as h’is to be brought h’up by you.”

Warden laughed again disagreeably, and, shutting the door on Davis, returned to his work; but the little incident and the burning, angry words of the despairing man shook him unpleasantly, and his temper, never one of the best, was in such a ruffled condition, that it only wanted the faintest provocation to kindle it into a blaze. This provocation (not a very slight one) came in the shape of his little son. Roy had awakened, and after looking round in vain for Faith, had slid down off the horse-hair sofa. He was thoroughly refreshed by his sleep, and was just in the mood when a very little child, in its eager desire for occupation, may do incalculable mischief.

Warden did not know that the little fellow had awakened. He sat with his back to the sofa, and was now thoroughly absorbed in his work. He was drawing up a prospectus for the new society, and his head was bent low over the paper. By his side lay, in a neat and complete form, a prize essay, which he had taken some three months of hard work and hard thought to put together. The subject was one of the popular subjects of the day. The prize was only open to working men. Warden had every hope of gaining the prize. If so, he would win 50 pounds. His essay was complete. He had sat up late the night before, finishing it, and it was to be posted to its destination that very evening. Now, with an unconscious jerk of his elbow, he tossed the neatly pinned together pages on to the floor. He knew nothing of this fact; but as they lay wide open from their fall on the floor, they presented a very tempting spectacle to the eager eyes of little Roy. He approached the precious manuscript softly, sat down on the carpet, and began the delicious work of tearing it into pieces. For a quarter of an hour there was perfect stillness, at the end of which time nothing whatever remained of Warden’s prize essay but a pile of scattered fragments which surrounded little Roy. When the deed of mischief was fully done, and not before, the little fellow gave utterance to a deep sigh of satisfaction, and, raising his clear, baby voice, exclaimed, in a tone of triumph:

“’Ook, fader, ’ook!”

Warden did look, and comprehended at a glance. His essay was hopelessly lost! He had no other copy! A quieter and better man might have felt provocation. Into Warden’s breast there entered a devil. He caught the little child roughly in his arms, dealt him several sharp blows, and rushed with him into the adjoining bedroom.

“There, you bad, bad boy! Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again.” He locked the door on Roy, and might have been heard pacing up and down his sitting-room. He was in a furious rage, and would scarcely have minded then had any one told him that he had seriously injured his child.

Meanwhile the little child, stunned by the blows, terrified by the rough, hard words, totally uncomprehending what he had done wrong, for Faith had many times given him old papers to tear, lay for a moment or two trembling on the floor. Then he began to sob loudly; then he rose to his feet. It was growing dark in the bedroom, and Roy hated the dark. He ran to the door which divided bedroom and sitting-room, and, shaking it cried loudly:

“Yet me in – yet me in!”

No regard was paid to his eager little voice, and his cries and distress were redoubled. Where was Faith? What did it all mean? He was confused, frightened, pained. He could not comprehend how or why. Turning his back at last to the inhospitable closed door, and standing, a pitiable little object, with all his golden curls lying in a tangled mass on his forehead, he saw a welcome light in another part of the room. This light came from the door which opened on to the passage, and was but very seldom used. Now, through some accident, it was about an inch or two ajar.

Roy saw the light in the passage beyond, and ran to it with a glad cry. When he got there, the thought entered his baby head that he would go and look for Faith. His father had turned him away; his father had hurt him and not been at all nice. Roy, heaving a great sob, felt he did not at all understand his father. Yes; he would go and look for Faith. When she was neither in the sitting-room nor in the bedroom she was out. He would go out to look for her, for she was always very nice.

Down step after step he stumbled, no one meeting him, no one observing. Down the long hall at the end he ran, and out through the open door. His head uncovered, his little round arms bare, he ran quickly away from his home. A baby of two years to be lost in the London streets!

Chapter Five

When Faith came in a few moments later, she found her father pacing up and down the room. His anger and vexation were still burning hot; he was still in his heart wishing that Roy were an older child, so that he might punish him more severely. It was a great relief to see Faith’s pale, anxious little face. Yes, without any doubt Faith was the real culprit. On Faith then should the full vials of his wrath fall.

“See what you have done,” he said; “come here, right over here, and see what you have done.”

Faith, her face growing a shade whiter, approached and saw the scattered pieces of the prize essay still lying on the floor.

“Wot h’ever is that, father?” she ventured to say.

“What ever is that? ’tis my essay, my prize essay, that your brother tore all into bits. How dare you, how dare you, I say, disobey me and leave the child alone? You have done mischief that can never be put right, and I’ll never forgive you.”

“Oh! father,” said Faith piteously. She went on her knees and took some of the tiny torn fragments into her hand.

“There! don’t touch them; ’tis jest enough to madden a man, but you shall suffer. If you can’t take care of the child, some one else shall. Yes, you shan’t hear the last of this. Now, tell me where you have been this hour and more.”

“I went to Sunday-school, father. I don’t know why I disobeyed you; indeed I never did it before, but I ’ad a kind of hankering to go jest once. I left Roy asleep, and I never guessed as he ’ud wake; I thought I’d be back long afore, and I never guessed as you’d come home; I never, never guessed it. Oh! Indeed I’m dreadful, bitter sorry, indeed I am.”

“You have need to be; you can’t even guess how angry God Almighty is with you; you’re a very, very wicked girl. There, get out of my sight go into the bedroom, you shan’t have no tea to-night.”

Faith went slowly towards the bedroom door, she opened it and shut it behind her; she cared nothing for the punishment of going without her supper, she was glad to be away from her father, glad to be alone with the dreadful, dreadful weight which rested on her heart. Her father had said that she was a very, very wicked girl, that no one could even guess how angry God was with her. Yes, she believed her father; she had done wrong. It was most certainly wrong to disobey, she had disobeyed her father’s strictest command. Tears burned in her eyes, but lay too heavy there to roll down her cheeks; she sat on the floor, a little bent-up bundle of misery, and forgot Roy and every one else in the anguish of being under God’s displeasure. And she had been having such a happy time. How sweet that Sunday-school was! how kind the teacher, who had welcomed the timid child standing at the door! then how gentle and good were her words – all, all about Jesus and His love – all about the tender care the great Heavenly Father takes of His little ones. Faith listened, and when all was over, with her heart quite full of her great question, she lingered behind the other scholars.

“You will come again to my class next Sunday?” said the Sunday teacher, smiling at her.

“I’m dreadful afeared as I can’t,” answered Faith. “I’d like to beyont any words, but I’m feared as I can’t come no more; I only come to-day ’cause I do want to know how to bring Roy to Jesus.”

“Who is Roy?” asked the teacher.

“Please, lady dear, he’s my little, little brother; he’s quite a baby boy; I do want to bring him to Jesus.”

“The Bible tells us how to bring little children to the dear Saviour Jesus,” answered the teacher in her sweet, low voice. “But I think you need to have it explained to you, Faith. If you can manage to come even once again to Sunday-school, and if you will be here just five minutes before the school opens, why I will come too, and tell you all about it. I am sorry I must run away now.”

She nodded and smiled at Faith, and Faith went away with a great and wonderful joy in her heart. But oh! how changed was everything now! God, who was spoken of as very loving, very forgiving, very kind at Sunday-school, was dreadfully angry with her. Her father had said he never would forgive her, and Faith felt that she deserved some punishment, for in disobeying her father she certainly had done wrong.

Oh! what a lonely, lonely little girl she was; were it not for Roy, how without love and interest would her life be! but yes, she still had her darling, precious baby boy. At the remembrance of him she raised her face, and then got up slowly from her crouching position. It was full time to give him his supper and put him to bed. She reproached herself afresh for having forgotten him so long. Was it possible that he was still asleep on the sofa in the sitting-room! no, this could scarcely be the case, for her father had said that he had done the incalculable mischief of tearing up his prize essay. Poor, poor little Roy, how innocently he had committed this great crime! how often had she kept him quiet by giving him an old newspaper to tear! Yes, she, and she alone, was the only one to blame for the mischief done that night; but whoever was the guilty party, Roy must have his supper and go to bed; it was far too late already for a little child only two years old to be up. Faith must brave her father’s anger and fetch Roy from the sitting-room. She trembled a little as she approached the door, and thought of her stern father’s voice and manner; but though far too timid to raise even a finger to help herself, Faith was one of those who would gladly take her very life in her hand to save or aid one whom she loved. She opened the door softly and looked in. Her father was seated by the table, the gas flaring high over his head; he was trying laboriously to put some of his torn essay together; he heard the movement at the door, but without looking up called out harshly – “Go away; I can’t be disturbed.”

“Please, father, ’tis only me fur Roy. I want Roy to give him his supper.”

“Roy ain’t here. Go away, I say.” Faith’s heart gave a great bound. No, Roy was certainly not in the room. Could she have overlooked him in the bedroom? There was no light, except from the gas outside, in the room. Had her father been very harsh and angry with little Roy, and had he crept in here and fallen asleep? She went back, struck a light with a trembling hand, and looked around her.

No, he was not in the big bed. He was not in his own little cot. He was nowhere, either under the bed or on the floor.

“Roy, Roy, little darling Roy,” she called, but no sweet, gay voice answered to hers. Oh! where was little Roy? She went into the tiny dressing-room where her father slept. No, Roy was not there.

A horrible dread came over Faith. Where was Roy? Her father had said that as she could not take proper care of him, some one else should. Had he really taken Roy away, and given him into the care of some stranger, some dreadful, dreadful stranger who would not love him, or care for him as he ought to be loved and tended? The agony of this idea took all fear away from Faith. Without a particle of hesitation now, she went back to her father. He was so busy he did not even hear her swift step, and started when her voice sounded at his elbow.

“Please, father, I must know where you ha’ tuk Roy. It ’ull kill me unless I know that much at once.”

The agony and consternation in her tone caused Warden to raise his head in surprise.

“I don’t know what you mean, Faith. I only took Roy into the bedroom. There! go, and put him to bed, and don’t act more foolishly than you can help.”

“You only tuk him inter the bedroom?” repeated Faith. She did not stay another second with her father, she rushed away from him and back to the inner room. A fear even more terrible than her first fear had come to her. She remembered that the door leading into the passage was open. Was it possible, possible that little Roy, her little sweet baby Roy, had gone out through that open door, had slipped down-stairs, and into the street? Oh! no, it never could be possible. However angry God was with her, He could never allow such an awful punishment as this to overtake her. She rushed wildly up-stairs and down-stairs, looking into every room, calling everywhere for Roy. No one had seen him, no one had heard the baby steps as they stole away. The whole house was searched in vain for little Roy. He was not to be found. In five minutes, Faith came back to her father. She came up to him, her breath a little gone, her words coming in gasps. She laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, father,” she said, “you wor quite, quite right. God h’Almighty’s werry angry wid me. I don’t know how I’ll h’ever bear it. Little Roy ain’t in the house, father. When you put him in the bedroom he runned out by the other door, he ran inter the street. We ha’ searched h’all the house over, and he ain’t there. My little Roy is quite, quite lost.”

“Lost!” echoed Warden. He sprang to his feet. “Roy not in the house! Roy lost!” Back over his memory came the picture of the lovely sleeping boy, of the real love and pride with which he had kissed him. His prize essay became as nothing to him. But swift through his hard, cold heart passed an arrow of intolerable pain. “Roy, lost?” he repeated. “God help me! and I wor werry rough to the little chap.”

They were the humblest words that had ever passed his lips. He rushed from the room, for he must find his son.