Meanwhile, little Roy pursued his way down the long street which led from his home to another, which on weekdays was full of shops and gay with light and many-coloured windows. To-day, being Sunday, the shops were closed, and the place looked dull. Sobbing slightly under his breath, and a very little alarmed at the temerity of his own act, little Roy ran down this street. His object lay very clear before his baby mind – he was going to meet Faith. Faith was out, and, as he too had gone out, he would, of course, find her very soon. At the corner of this second street he came suddenly upon a flaring gin-palace, which, Sunday though it was, was brilliant with light and full of people. The bright light streaming right out into the street attracted little Roy. He stopped his sobbing, paused in his short, running gait, and pressed his little face against the pane. “Pitty, pitty!” he said to himself – he even forgot Faith in the admiration which filled his baby soul. After a time it occurred to him that Faith would be very likely to be in such a lovely place. The swing-doors were always opening and shutting. Roy, watching his opportunity, pushed his way in by the side of a ragged woman and two coarse men. They advanced up to the counter to ask for gin, but the baby child remained on the threshold. He looked around him with the wide open eyes of admiration, innocence, and trust. Anything so lovely gazing at anything so evil had been seldom seen; certainly never seen before within those walls. The men and women drinking themselves to the condition of beasts, stopped, and a kind of shocked feeling pervaded the whole assembly. It was as though an angel had alighted on that threshold, and was showing those poor hardened wretches what some of them had once been – what, alas! none of them could ever be again. Little Roy’s cheeks were slightly flushed; his tangled yellow hair, ruffled more than ever by his running in the wind, surrounded his head like a halo; and as gradually it dawned upon him that all those people surrounding him were strangers, his blue eyes filled with tears. The directness of his aim, the full certainty of his thought were brought to a stand-still; all movement was arrested by the terrible certainty that Faith was not there.

“Bless us! who h’ever h’is the little ’un?” said the ragged woman who had come into the gin-palace with him. “Wot’s yer name, my little dear, and wot h’ever do yer want?”

“’Ittle ’Oy want Fate,” said the boy in a clear high tone.

The woman laughed. “Hark to the young ’un,” she said, turning to her companions. “Did yer h’ever hear the like o’ that afore? He says as he wants his fate. Pretty lamb, it ’ull come to him soon enough.”

“’Oy want Fate – ’Oy do want Fate,” said the little child again.

The woman bent down and took his hand.

“No, no, my dear,” she said. “You run away home, and never mind yer fate; it ’ull come h’all in good time; and babies have no cause to know sech things.”

“’Oy do want Fate,” repeated the boy. Two other women had now come round him, and also a man.

“It don’t seem no way canny like, to hear him going on like that,” said one of the group. “And did yer h’ever see sech a skin, and sech ’air? I don’t b’lieve a bit that he’s a real flesh-and-blood child.”

A coarse red-faced woman pushed this speaker away.

“Shame on yer, Kate Flarherty; the child ain’t nothink uncanny. He’s jest a baby boy. Bless us! I ’ad a little ’un wid ’air as yaller as he. You ha’ got lost, and run away. Ain’t that it, dear little baby boy?”

This woman, for all her red face, had a kind voice, and it won little Roy at once.

“Will ’oo take me to Fate?” he said; and he went up to the woman, and put his little hand in hers. She gave almost a scream when the little hand touched her; but, catching him in her arms, and straining him to her breast, she left the gin-palace at once.

Chapter Seven

Warden spent all that night looking for Roy. He went to the police courts; he got detectives even to his aid. By the morning advertisements were placarded about, and rewards were offered for the missing child. He did all that could be done, and was assured by the police that whoever had stolen little Roy away would now certainly bring him back. Warden was a carpenter by trade. He was engaged now over a job which was to be finished by a given time, and which would, when completed, pay him handsomely. He had engaged to have it done by this date, and he was a man who had never yet failed in his appointments. But for all that he came home that morning, and never thought of going out again to work. His whole heart, and soul, and energies were concentrated, waiting and listening for a little voice, for the sight of a dear golden head, the return of the blue-eyed boy who was his own, and whom now that he had lost, he knew, indeed, to be bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. So near, so precious had little Roy become, that without him it would be agony to live. Warden went home, and saw on the floor some of the scattered fragments of his torn essay. The pieces he had been laboriously trying to put together when Faith had come to him with the news that little Roy had ran away, still lay on the table. In the grate were some burnt-out ashes; the room was untidy – dusty. It had not been touched since last night. It was Faith’s duty to make this room ready for breakfast; and, as a rule, Warden would have been angry with her for its present state of neglect; but this morning he said nothing, only when his eyes rested on the torn pieces of the essay he uttered a groan, and, stooping down, he picked them all up and put them in the grate. There he set fire to them. When they had been reduced to a few white ashes he sat down on the horse-hair sofa and wondered when Faith would appear. She came in presently from the inner room, and Warden roused himself to say, in a new and wonderfully kind tone:

“I ha’ had rewards put up, and the detectives are on the watch. We’ll have him home werry soon, Faithy.”

Faith did not make any answer. There was a queer, dull, almost stupid look on her face. She moved half-mechanically about the room, getting her father’s breakfast and pouring it out for him as if nothing had happened. When she gave him his cup of hot coffee, she even seated herself in her accustomed place opposite. Roy’s little empty chair was pushed against the wall. Faith moved her own so that her eyes should not rest on this symbol of the lost child.

“Eat some breakfast, Faith,” said her father; then he added, in a tone which he endeavoured to render cheerful, “The little chap ’ull be back very soon, I guess. Do you hear me, Faith? I expect little Roy to be brought back almost immediately.”

“Yes, father,” answered Faith. She raised her dull eyes to his face. He saw not a gleam of either hope or belief in them, and, unable to endure the despair of the little daughter whom he had never loved, he pushed back his chair and left the room. The moment he did so Faith breathed a slight sigh of relief. She left the breakfast-table, and, getting a chair, she mounted it and took down from a high shelf an old and dusty copy of the Bible. It was a copy she had seen in her mother’s hands. She had watched her dying mother read in this old Bible, and smile and look happy as she read. Afterwards Faith had tried herself to read in the old book. But one day her father, seeing it lying about, and feeling that it reminded him of his wife, who never had it very far from her side, had put it up out of the children’s reach, and Faith had hitherto been too timid to dare to take it down; but there was nothing at all timid about the little girl’s movements to-day. An absorbing agony of grief and pain was filling her poor little heart to the utter exclusion of all lesser feelings. She fetched down the old Bible from its dusty hiding-place, because it had come back to her memory in the long hours of the wakeful night she had just gone through, that the Sunday teacher who had given her that sweet and peaceful lesson the day before had said that the Bible was full of stories about Jesus. If only she could find the place where he took the babies in His arms, and was so good and kind to them. Perhaps if she found the account of the story she might also learn how the mothers and the sisters – for surely there must have been little sad orphan sisters like her in that group – she might learn how they came to Jesus with the babies; she might find out how He was to be found now. Her teacher had said He was not dead. The neighbour down-stairs had said He was not dead. Then, if that was so, would not the very best thing Faith could do be to go to Him first herself, and tell Him that Roy was lost – that he had gone quite, quite far away, and ask Him to help her to find him? She placed the Bible on the table, got a duster, and, tenderly removing its dust, opened it. It was a large book – a book with a great, great deal of writing, and Faith wondered how soon she could find this particular story that she longed for. She could read very slowly, and very badly. She might be a long time seeing the place where Jesus blessed the babies; but here unlooked-for help was at hand. Faith’s dead mother, too, had loved this special story. The place opened at the very page, and, to help Faith still further, the words were heavily marked with a pencil.

Yes, it was all there; all that the ragged girl had told her yesterday. Faith had a vivid imagination, and she saw the whole picture – she saw the waiting mothers and the lovely baby children. She saw the angry disciples trying to send them away, and the face of the dear Saviour of the whole world as, taking one after the other of these lambs in His arms, He said, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Faith read the story over and over until she really knew it all by heart. Yes, it was all there, but one difficulty was not over. She had read with her own eyes the story, but she saw nothing in the sacred words to help her special need – nothing about where Jesus lived now, nothing of how she, Faith, could go to Him, and ask Him to help her to find her little brother. She had less doubt than ever in her own mind of His perfect willingness to help her – of His perfect power to find Roy again. But how could she find Him? In what part of vast London did Jesus live now?

Faith returned the old Bible into its place. She had found out what it could tell her. Who was there who could give her the further knowledge for which she craved? On one point, however, she had quite made up her mind. With the aid of Jesus, or without, she must go herself to find her little brother. This course of action seemed to her right, and clear as daylight. It was all very well to talk of police and detectives searching for the child. Faith did not know anything about such people. Knowing nothing, she believed not at all in their power, but she did believe most fully in the power of her own great love. Surely no one else in all the world could distinguish Roy’s little face so far away; no one else could detect the clear ring of his voice in the roar and din of London. The little child had run away in fear and loneliness; but Faith, by the strength and power of her love, could bring him back again. She did not think at all about her father. She failed either to see or comprehend his new-born affection or anxiety. Her little heart felt hard against him; he had been cruel to her darling baby boy, and Faith could make no allowance for the torn prize essay. Her father was hard and cruel to every one. Faith did not pity him; nor did she believe in the least in his ability to bring the lost child home. No, this must be her task. She tied on her hat, and put on her out-door jacket, and ran down-stairs, for she had not a moment to lose. At the foot of the stairs she met the neighbour who had come into their room the evening before. She stopped her for a moment.

“Please, Mrs Mason, ’ull you tell father as I ha’ gone out to look for Roy?”

“Bless us, child!” exclaimed the good-natured woman; “but you do look real bad. I think as I wouldn’t go out, Honey; the little ’un will be brought back now they has put it inter the hands of the perleece.”

“I know best how to find him – please ’ull you tell father?” answered Faith in her quiet little voice, and the woman did not trouble to detain her further.

Chapter Eight

Faith thought first of going to Regent’s Park, for Roy was so accustomed to visiting this park on fine Sunday mornings with his sister, that perhaps his little feet might guide him there unconsciously. She forgot that at the time at which Roy had run out into the warm darkness of the autumn night, the park gates must have been shut. She walked rapidly in this direction now, entered the pleasant and beautiful place, and walked towards the spot where she and Roy had been so happy on Sunday. Yes, there was the wide-spreading oak-tree, there were the daisies still left that Roy had picked and thrown away the day before. Faith stooped down now and picked up these withered flowers, and put them carefully into her pocket. Roy’s castaway flowers were there, but not Roy – not her precious little Roy himself. Faith pressed her hands to her eyes, her heart was too heavy – too absolutely oppressed – for tears to come. But she was puzzled to know what course now to pursue. Faith was no common street child; though her father was only a carpenter, he was too steady, too respectable not always to obtain full employment and excellent pay, therefore the dire evils of poverty had never been experienced by little Faith. With the exception of a great loneliness, and a great dearth of the holy love of fatherhood, her life had been sheltered from all the rough winds which blow upon the class a little below her own. Had she been a common street child she would have known much better how to seek for Roy; as it was, she was puzzled. Not finding him in the one place where it would be utterly impossible for him to be, she did not know where else to look. Oh, if only she could discover the place where Jesus lived now, and ask Him to come and help her in her search! Jesus, however, was far nearer to the little lonely girl than she had any idea of, and He now sent her unlooked-for assistance.

A sharp, high voice sounded in her ear, “Well, wot h’ever ere you up to, and where’s the little un?”

It was the ragged girl who had washed her lips to get a kiss from little Roy on Sunday. Faith gave a great sigh of relief at sight of her.

“I’m so real glad yer come,” she said; “h’our little Roy ha’ run away – h’our little Roy is lost!”

“Lost!” said the girl; she went down on her knees close beside Faith, and stared hard into her face. Her own face, even through its dirt, looked blanched, and a frightened expression came into her eyes. “Tell us how yer little Roy got lost,” she said presently.

The sympathy in the girl’s face and tone caused some softening of Faith’s little heart.

“It was on Sunday,” she continued; “I did think a deal o’ what you said ’bout Jesus blessing the little children, and I disobeyed my father and ran away to Sunday-school. While I was away, little Roy ran out into the street: that wor how my little Roy got so lost – it wor all my fault; I wish as you ha’n’t told me nothing about Jesus.”

“I didn’t mean no harm,” answered the girl, “I only telled ’bout what I loved. But did you do nothing since? Why you should ha’ done heaps and heaps – you should ha’ gone to the perlice, and put the young ’un inter the ‘Hue and Cry;’ you should ha’ done all that last night, Faith.”

“I don’t know wot h’ever you mean,” replied Faith; “how could we put our little Roy into a place when we don’t know wherever he is? We don’t want to put our little Roy anywhere, only jest to bring him home.”

The ragged girl laughed. “Yer rare and innercent,” she said; “I didn’t mean no place by the ‘Hue and Cry;’ I meant a paper. You should ha’ said what kind o’ looking child he wor – what wor the colour of his eyes, and his hair, and how big he wor, and what clothes ’e ’ad h’on – all that ’ud be printed and pasted up for folks to read; not that the talk about the clothes ’ud do much good, fur in course they’d be made away wid first thing.”

“His clothes ’ud be stole!” exclaimed Faith. “No, I don’t believe that; I don’t believe that any one ’ud be so dreadful wicked as to steal away little Roy’s clothes.”

“Then you don’t believe as nobody ha’ stole him away. Why, Faith, in course ef he wor not picked up and carried off by some one he’d be brought back afore now by the perleece – why in course yer little baby Roy is stole away.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Faith. She gazed hard at the girl by her side, every vestige of colour leaving her face, as the dreadful idea became clear to her. Presently a hand touched her rather softly.

“Look here, I’m a willin’ to help yer, I am, indeed; don’t ’ee go on so, Faithy – don’t ’ee now – my name’s Meg, and I’m a willing to help ye.”

“Oh, please, Meg,” answered little Faith, putting her hand into the older girl’s.

“It’s a bargain, then,” said Meg, squeezing the little hand very hard.

“I’ll never, never go home again till I find Roy,” said Faith solemnly.

“I call that plucky; and ha’ yer any money?”

“No,” answered Faith.

“That’s rayther blue!” exclaimed Meg, indulging in a long whistle; “fur I h’an’t none ne’ther; but never mind, we’ll get along somehow. Now let’s set down on the grass and make up our plans – you don’t mind if I speak a bit plain, Faithy?”

“No,” answered Faith; “I don’t mind nothink but to find Roy again.”

“Well, it’s right as you should know that little ’un ha’ bin stole. Many and many a body as I could tell on, steals the well-dressed babies; they does it fur the clothes and the reward offered. My mother – she ha’ stole two or three.”

“Oh, how dreadful wicked she must be!” said Faith. “I hope, Meg, as we h’an’t got to live wid yer mother while we’re looking fur Roy?”

“No,” answered Meg, shaking her head gravely; “I parted wid mother yesterday – we ’greed as it wor ’bout time fur me to purwide fur my own self. I mayn’t never see mother agen – it all comes natral. I’m real glad as we’re parted, for now I won’t be wallopped no more.”

“I never, never thought as mothers wor like that,” said Faith; “she must be most desp’rate wicked.”

“Oh, no, she’s not so werry; I ha’ seen far worse nor mother.”

“But to steal the babies!” said Faith.

“Bless us, Faith, heaps and heaps on ’em does that. They most times gives the young ’uns back again. They jest watches for the ‘Hue and Cry’ and the rewards put up by the perlice stations, and then they brings ’em back and purtends as they ha’ found ’em. Mother tuk all back but one, he – ”

“Yes,” said Faith eagerly.

“Well,” continued Meg, speaking with a slight shade of hesitation; “that ’ere little ’un – there worn’t no reward offered. Mother waited and waited, and I coaxed her ter take him back, but she got h’angered, and she wouldn’t – she ’ud never – h’all I could do – take that ere little child back home again.”

“Oh, Meg! and ha’ she got him still?” Meg indulged in a short, rather hard laugh. “Bless yer, Faithy, not a bit o’ it; that ’ere little ’un tuk the fever and he died. I tuk on most bitter after he died, as I did care fur him; yer little Roy put me in mind o’ his purty ways! but he’s h’all right now, he’s with Jesus now – it wor arter he died as I went to Sunday-school and larned ’bout Jesus. Little Charlie’s safe in the arms of Jesus this long time past now.”

“Do you think,” asked Faith, “as Jesus wot loves the little children, ’ud help us to find our little Roy again?”

Meg looked very grave for half a minute, then she said, her face brightening, “That’s a good thought, Faithy; we’ll jest tell Him all about little Roy.”

Faith sprang to her feet, “Then let’s go to Him at once,” she said, “let’s find out His address and go to Him; we’ll ask Him to lose no time in finding that werry wicked woman who has stole little Roy.”