The rest hastened after him, and soon all were bending forward looking into the pit, the depth of which varied from five to six feet. What was it that had called forth their astonishment? The ancient walls, which each day’s toil exposed more fully, had now become familiar to them; they had often noticed the lines of colour traced by some alien hand so many centuries before, yet still bright and distinct where the sunshine caught them: they were not prone to marvel at these things at any time, and certainly not now when the modern wonders at the Fair were still fresh in their memory. “Why, how ever did he get there?” cried the first speaker, pointing downwards with his thumb as the long-dead proprietor of those ancient walls might once have pointed at some doomed gladiator. There, amid the relics of a bygone civilisation, lay the chubby form of a little nineteenth-century child—an extremely modern little Briton in a sailor-suit, with a mop of yellow curls tumbling over his sleeping face. Yes, there lay Johnny! While his distracted father was scouring the roads; while his mother and sisters, frantic with grief, had passed the night in wandering from house to house beating up search-parties, Johnny was sleeping the sweet, sound sleep of the tired child, on a heap of soft earth at the bottom of the Roman villa. On hearing the strange voices he sat up, and looked about him, rosy and dewy after his slumbers. The night had been mild, and he had rolled himself up so tightly that he had contrived to keep warm. He blinked in bewilderment at the bright sunshine and at the strange bearded faces. Then, with returning consciousness, the thought which had been last present to his mind before sleep had overtaken him leaped back to it. “I want Dada,” said Johnny. “Why, how in the name o’ fortun’ did you get here?” cried one of the men, swinging himself over the side, and taking the child up in his arms. “Have you been here all night?” “Looks like it,” cried another. “What’s your name, little man?” “Johnny,” said the child. “How did ye come here, eh?” “I thought the man was arter me, and I couldn’t find Dada,” said Johnny. “I looked and looked, an’ it was dark, and I was running, and I falled down here and I couldn’t get out again.” “Well, what a tale! The little chap’s lost hisself, d’ye see, mates? There’s somebody in trouble about this ’ere, you mid be sure! Somebody’s lost en at the Fair.” “Ah, he don’t look as if he belonged to any o’ the gipsy folk, or the shows, or sich as them,” said somebody. “Seems as if he did belong to decent folks. They be lookin’ for en at Shroton most like—we’d best take en back there. He don’t belong to nobody about here, that’s plain. Where d’ye live, Johnny?” “Next door to Mrs. Short,” returned the child promptly. “That’s tellin’ nothin’. What’s the name o’ the place?”