And he leered at Rosie in so meaning a manner that she tossed her head and forgot all about her little brother. Mrs. Reed’s indignation and anxiety knew no bounds, and she was far from satisfied with the girls’ explanation. Indeed, she rated them both soundly, refused to hear any details of their doings, and dismissed them in dudgeon to their little attic room, where, infected by her alarm, they lay quaking as the hours passed without bringing their father. Midnight had been proclaimed by the asthmatic cuckoo-clock, and one had struck before the sound of heavy footsteps on the path without awoke Maggie from the uneasy doze into which she had at length fallen. “’Tis Father,” she cried, sitting up in her bed. “Lard! how he do fumble wi’ the latch. He do seem to be a bit drinky, and he can’t have been druv, after all. He must ha’ carried Johnny all the way. ’Tis a mercy if he haven’t dropped him.” They could hear their mother unbolting the house door, her voice raised in querulous reproach. “’Tis a shame for ’ee, John, to keep out the child to this time o’ night.” Then a sudden cry. “For mercy’s sake, what ha’ ye done wi’ him? Where be he?” “Where be what?” returned the father good-humouredly, if a little thickly. “Johnny? Why he be at home and abed hours ago. I left en wi’ the maids. They be come home, sure?” Maggie’s heart seemed to stand still; in a moment she had thrown a shawl over her nightgown, and was pattering down the narrow stairs, Rosie following and sobbing aloud. They burst into the kitchen. John Reed’s tall figure was standing in the open doorway, and though his wife, voiceless with terror, was clutching him by the arm, actually shaking him in her anxiety, he was smiling stupidly down at her, quite unconscious of the effect produced by his announcement. “’Ees,” he repeated, “I left en wi’ the maids, and they must ha’ started long afore I. I’ll tell ye all about it—I did meet Charl’ Pollen—” “Father!” shrieked Maggie, “ye don’t mean to say ye haven’t got Johnny! He wasn’t with us! He ran off to you late in the afternoon. I saw en close aside o’ you. Lard save us, what’s to be done! The child’s lost!” “Lost!” repeated Reed, sobered in a minute. “Lost!” He rushed towards the girls, his face working, his eyes bloodshot. “If you’ve been and lost that child I’ll be the death o’ you.” His voice was harsh, absolutely unlike itself; he could scarcely articulate in his frenzy of rage and terror. “I told ’ee,” he cried, “I told ’ee to look after en—my last words was, ‘Take care o’ Johnny, whatever ye do’. Don’t dare tell me ye’ve been and lost en!”