"Her father is a carpenter, Hannah, a werry, werry upper kind o' carpenter. She's real respectable, is Faithy. And wot does yer think? She have a little brother, a little lovely duck of a child, and he went out o' the house on Sunday night last and got losted, and this poor little Faith, she's near distracted. She and me, we're a looking fur the young 'un h'everywhere. I thought as I'd tell yer, Hannah, fur you see's a deal o' life, and you might ha' noticed as they ha' put him in the h'advertisements, and ten pound offered fur him." Hannah Searles had perfect control of feature. "I ha' seen about a missing child," she said after a moment's pause. "A child h'aged two year, dressed in blue, wid real gold 'air?" "Yes, yes," said Meg. "Oh! Hannah, ef you could only help us to find of 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 and went back to her cellar. She was trembling all over as she stumbled down the stairs. But when she had securely locked the door and lighted a long dip candle and had seen 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 in hers. "I'd rayther be torn in bits, nor give h'up this little hand," she said to herself. But she had got a great fright, and gazed long and greedily at her treasure. It was plain that if she wanted to keep little Roy, she must move away from 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 the nearness of the danger, but she also felt disappointment. The baby whom she considered her own baby now was so beautiful, so grand, so fine and strong, so unlike any other child she had ever looked at, that she had often 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, of perhaps Royalty, was happy and at home with such a woman as she--a woman at whom all respectable folks would point a finger of scorn; but yet whom 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, but still a child of the vast multitude. Her last scruple at keeping him vanished at this fact. He would lose nothing by remaining with her, and for his sake she would, she could, become good. CHAPTER TWELVE.