only help us to findof him--I think as Faith ull die ef he ain't found."
"I'll keep my h'eyes open," said Hannah, and then she nodded to Meg andwent back to her cellar.
She was trembling all over as she stumbled down the stairs. But whenshe had securely locked the door and lighted a long dip candle and hadseen with her own eyes little Roy sleeping quietly, she became calmer.She went over and knelt by the bed, and took one of the little hands inhers.
"I'd rayther be torn in bits, nor give h'up this little hand," she saidto herself.
But she had got a great fright, and gazed long and greedily at hertreasure.
It was plain that if she wanted to keep little Roy, she must move awayfrom here as fast as possible. She could scarcely find a cheaper home,but be that as it may she dare not stay so near to Faith. Presently,tired out, she sank down on the floor; she still trembled at thenearness of the danger, but she also felt disappointment. The baby whomshe considered her own baby now was so beautiful, so grand, so fine andstrong, so unlike any other child she had ever looked at, that she hadoften pictured to herself his high birth. He might, for aught she knew,be the son of a prince. Any prince in the land would be proud of him.And Hannah had delighted herself with the thought that this child, ofperhaps Royalty, was happy and at home with such a woman as she--a womanat whom all respectable folks would point a finger of scorn; but yetwhom the pure and innocent little child loved.
But he was of no high birth. He was only a son of the people after all.Many, many degrees above herself in respectability it was true, butstill a child of the vast multitude. Her last scruple at keeping himvanished at this fact. He would lose nothing by remaining with her, andfor his sake she would, she could, become good.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A week had passed away since Roy was lost. Sunday came round again,finding Faith no longer in her neat and comfortable home, but a gutterchild, dressed as badly, and in quite as great rags, as theworst-looking child around her. Meg was her companion and staunchfriend, but it seemed no hardship in Meg's eyes to counsel Faith to pawnher neat and good clothes, and to receive in exchange garments in whichher father would scarcely recognise her. The money received for theclothes had enabled the little girls to live for some days; and thenthey had sold matches and flowers, and in one way and another hadmanaged to keep life within them. Faith, though really unaccustomed toany hardship, had borne up bravely. The hope with which she hadawakened each morning that surely before the evening they would findRoy, had supported her spirits; but each night as it came, with itsinvariable disappointment, until even Meg began to own that she waspuzzled as to what had become of the child, brought an added weight toFaith's heart. She was more than ever determined not to go home againwithout her little brother. But as she lay down on her musty bed onSaturday evening in the wretched cellar where she and Meg had found forthemselves quarters, hope had vanished to a very low ebb indeed.
Sunday morning dawned. It would be a whole week to-day since she lasthad seen her darling little Roy. She felt very, very miserable. No,hope would not visit her heart that day, and as she lay in bed watchingMeg putting on her clothes, the tears rolled down her pale cheeks, anddark and sceptical thoughts filled her mind. When Meg noticed hertears, she spoke.
"It's all a lie, Meg; it's all a big, big lie."
"Wot's a lie," asked Meg, stopping in her dressing, and staring atFaith.
"Wot you telled me about Jesus. He didn't never love the littlechildren; ef He loved 'em, and ef He is as strong as you say, He'd ha'helped us to find my little baby Roy."
A pained look came over Meg's white and careworn face. She did notanswer Faith at all for a moment or two; but having quite finished herdressing, she bent down over her.
"I ha' made myself as clean as h'ever I could, and I'm off now tomorning ragged school; ef you'll come too, I'll wait fur yer, Faithy."
"No, no," replied Faith, shaking her head. "I'll stay and wait here.The ragged Sunday-school's all about Jesus, and I don't b'lieve in noJesus now."
Meg said nothing more; she smothered a faint sigh, and closing the doorbehind her ran down-stairs. She had more than a mile to walk toSunday-school, and she was anxious to be in time; but as she walkedalong, the pained expression called up by Faith's words had not left herface.
Meg was a wild, untaught, uncared-for Arab child, a true offshoot of thelowest of the people. With a touch of gipsy blood in her veins, withthe most ungoverned, uncontrolled passions, she yet was capable of adevotion, of an affection self-absorbing, self-forgetful. Offered up atany other shrine, it would have been idolatry; offered at this, it wasworship. Meg loved, something as Mary Magdalene, something as the womenwho followed to the sepulchre, must have loved our Lord.
All the love of a most loving nature had Meg given to Jesus. It was notalone gratitude which inspired this love. "It's jest cause He's sowonderful beautiful His own self," she would say; and it was agony toher, greater even than it would be to a mother to hear her little childabused, to have a word breathed against Him.
Faith's words had wrung her heart. She was very sorry for Faith, verysorry that she could have so spoken; but she was more sorry for the painshe feared the words must have caused Jesus.
"I 'ope as yer'll soon let us find the little 'un, for she's beginningto think real hard things of yer, and I can't abear 'em, I can't abear'em," said Meg, looking up at the sky, and comforting herself with thisvery direct little prayer.
As she was leaving the Sunday-school at the end of the morning'slessons, it came into her head that perhaps while she and Faith were soearnestly seeking for little Roy, he might all this time be safely athome. How stupid of them both never to have thought of this before!She had heard all about Faith's respectable home from the little girlherself. Yes; she would go there now and set her mind at rest on thispoint before returning to Faith.
She reached the house. There was a common staircase, and the hall doorstood open. She met no one as she ran up-stairs, and her feet, innocentof shoes and stockings, made no sound. A door was a little open on thefirst landing, and Meg, peeping in, saw a man seated by a table. He wasa tall and powerful man, and Meg knew at once that she was looking atFaith's father.
There was profound silence in the house, and Meg heard the man, whoseface was bowed over his hands, presently say:
"It's a lie, it's all a lie. There is no good God. If there were, Hewould never have torn my children away from me like this. And I haveasked Him so often and so long to bring them back again. Yes; God doesnot hear prayer. It's a lie, I say. There is no God, no Christ, nonothing."
"How dare yer!" said Meg, rushing into the room like a little fury. Theman's words had stung her so hard that she lost both fear andself-control. She rushed at the man, and took his hands and shook them."How dare yer, how dare yer!" she repeated. "Oh! yer a wicked, wickedman to say as there's no Jesus Christ."
Warden--for it was he--started, and stared at the furious littlecreature. He did not say a word, or attempt in his utter astonishmentto oppose her. He only gazed hard, as one who was bereft of all reason.
"Oh! there is a Jesus Christ, and you sha'n't dare say there ain't,"repeated Meg; and then she suddenly flung herself on the floor at hisfeet, and gave way to the most violent, most passionate sobs he had everheard proceeding from human breast.
He got up and locked the door; then he got water and gave it to Meg. Hewas kind rather than otherwise to the poor child. When she was better,he even brought her over to sit on the sofa where little Roy had slepthis last sleep in that room.
"Now, why did you rush in and speak to me in that strange way?" heasked.
"'Cause yer drove me near mad. You had no call ter say so dreadful athing as that my Jesus Christ worn't there."
"You believe in Him then?" said Warden.
"I believe in Jesus Christ our Lord," said Meg. Her excitement wasspent. She spoke quietly, raising her big, black eyes to heaven. Therewas something in her manner which must have
impressed even the mostutterly careless and indifferent with its absolute sincerity.
Warden was silent, gazing at her curiously, even with admiration.
"You must not only believe in Him, you must love Him very much," hesaid.
"Ay, I love Him; I'd die fur Him most willin'," said Meg, clasping herhard hands very tight together.
"But He hasn't treated you as He has me," said Warden. "You don't know,you can't even understand, what has happened to me. I was always a mostrespectable man. I tried to do my duty. I had two children. This dayweek I had two children, a son and a daughter. Now I have none. Theydid not die, but they ran