“Well, an’ if we do have a kid wi’ yaller curls, what’s that to he?” grumbled the other. “Us have got brats enough of our own wi’out wantin’ strangers. I’ll have compensation for this. I bain’t a-goin’ to be assaulted and a-battered for nothin’.” The nearest policeman, a portly personage, and jealous of his prerogative, now turning in a dignified manner, informed the malcontent that he didn’t know nothin’ o’ what he was talkin’ of—compensation didn’t apply to no such case as this, and finally ordered him sternly to move on. Meanwhile Reed had somewhat recovered, and was looking about him with red, swollen eyes, and explaining huskily to the crowd as he hugged Johnny in his arms:— “I thought I’d lost en, d’ye see?—that’s it. I thought I’d lost en.” Rising presently, he prepared to leave the field, Johnny’s whilom protector walking beside him, relating over and over again how he had come upon the child, how surprised he had been, how he had said to his mates that there was sure to be somebody in trouble about this, and how he had thought it best to come to the Fair at once. Reed, listening in a dazed kind of way, folded his arms tighter about Johnny, and stumbled along almost like a man in a dream. “Shall I carry him?” said the other suddenly. “Ye do seem that upset I reckon ye’d get along easier.” And then John woke up. “Nay,” he said, “nay, sir. I thank ’ee kindly—I thank ’ee from my heart for findin’ en and all—but I can’t let go of en. I must have the feel of en, ye see.” As they turned out of the gate a sudden rattle of wheels was heard and a trap came in sight, the horse proceeding at a kind of hobbling canter, and one of the occupants of the little vehicle actually standing upright and supporting herself by the shoulder of the driver. “’Tis Mammy, I do believe,” said Reed. “See, Johnny—and there’s Maggie and Rosie at back. Call out to ’em, Sonny! Holler loud. I don’t know what’s come to me, I can’t seem to get my voice out.” Johnny duly raised his shrill pipe, and in another moment, with a joyful whoop, Jim Fry had thrown the reins on the horse’s back, and the whole party had tumbled into the road. Mrs. Reed and Rosie were beside Dada and his precious burden almost immediately, but Maggie hung back, looking at her father with piteous, appealing eyes. “Come here, Maidy,” he said huskily, “come—all’s forgive and forgot—there be summat to forgive and forget on all sides. I were a bit rough to ’ee last night, but there, d’ye see, I were very nigh out o’ my mind.” Maggie made a clutch at the nearest available portion of Johnny’s person, which happened to be a sturdy little mottled leg—for he was positively swamped by the caresses of his family—stooped, kissed it, and burst into tears. Rosie followed suit, the mother had been long ago weeping, and now John Reed himself began to gulp and make contortions of the face as though in preparation for a fresh outburst of emotion.