“Oh, Father, Father!” wailed Maggie, who had retreated to the farthest end of the room, and now stood gazing at him with eyes that seemed ready to start from her pallid face. “Oh, Father, you did say you was a-comin’ back for en, and he was a-cryin’ for you, and when he catched sight o’ you he wouldn’t be kept back all us could say. And we stood and watched en till he was close aside of ’ee. How could we but think he was safe!” “Ye shouldn’t ha’ let go of en for a minute,” thundered the father. “I never set eyes on en, I tell ’ee. My God! the child’s lost, sure enough!” He sank down on the nearest chair, covering his face with his hands, while the women stood huddled together with ghastly faces, weeping and lamenting. Suddenly he sprang up again, turning on them savagely:— “How could ye be sich fools as to think I’d keep him out till this hour? D’ye fancy I’d no thought for en? D’ye really think I—I could go for to do anything as mid hurt en? Lard, to think on it! Keep them maids o’ yourn out of my sight, Missus, or upon my word I’ll be the death of ’em.” Mrs. Reed’s very soul was pierced by the cruelty of the words “Them maids o’ yours,” which not only implied her responsibility for the catastrophe, but seemed to portend a kind of dissolution of partnership; but, nevertheless, she alone of all the family retained a remnant of self-possession. “Let’s see,” she said tremulously, “what time was it when you see him last, maids?” “Six o’clock, I think,” gasped Maggie. “Six o’clock,” repeated Reed, dropping his voice suddenly to a despairing note. “Six o’clock and it’s nigh upon two now! That’s eight hours since he was seen or heard of.” “Maybe he’s there yet,” cried the mother, still striving to be hopeful. “Don’t let’s lose another moment, Father—let’s go and look for en straight off. Maybe he’s crope into one o’ the tents and fell asleep, or maybe somebody’s found en and is a-taken care of en. I don’t believe,” added the poor woman wistfully, “I don’t believe as any one could find it in their hearts for to hurt a little chap like him—so pretty as he did look too! Oh, dear!” Her face changed, and she caught her breath with a sudden gasp. Her lip began to tremble, and she pressed her finger to it to still it. “He be too pretty,” she said falteringly; “that’s the worst on it! There be so many gipsy folk about, and play-actors, and all sorts.” “Oh, Mother,” cried Maggie and Rosie together, “ye don’t think as anybody ’ud want to steal en?” “I don’t know, I’m sure,” she returned almost inarticulately; “there, maybe they wouldn’t, but they do tell sich tales, and Johnny did look sich a pictur’, ye know; we was a-sayin’ it ourselves.” John Reed uttered such a heart-rending groan upon this that the girls, forgetful of their terror, ran towards him. “Keep off, I say!” he cried savagely, springing from his chair. “Keep off!—keep out of my sight—I don’t know what I mid do to you.”