Long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place to serious alarm. He was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find Marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had not yet come home of her own accord. While he would not, even now, believe that Marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost. But what was that? He had turned once more towards home, and had entered his own street, and there was Marian, playing with some other children, on the pavement, just in front. Her back was towards him, as she bent down over her play. But there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair, and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock. With the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands and lifted the child from the ground. Then he uttered a cry. It was not Marian after all! He put her down--he almost let her drop, and the startled child began to cry. "Cobbler" Horn hastily pushed a penny into her hand, and strode on. He staggered like one who has received a blow. It seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms, and she had slipped away again. When he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence, before the now fireless grate. On her brother's entrance, she looked up as aforetime. "Cobbler" Horn sank despondently into a chair. "Nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh. "We must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a sudden thought. "Ah, you are tired, and hungry." Aunt Jemima hesitated on the last word. Could her brother be hungry? She thought she would never wish to taste food again. "No," he said quickly; "but Marian will want her tea. Put the dinner away. It is cold, Jemima." "I put her plate in the oven," said Aunt Jemima, in a hollow voice, as she rose from her seat. "Ah!" gasped the father. The little plate had become hot and cold again, and its contents were quite dried up. Aunt Jemima put the plate upon the oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her brother's face. Severe towards herself, as towards others, she unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault. "Brother, your child is gone; and I have driven her away." She lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair. "I do not ask you to forgive me. It is not to be expected of you--unless she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself." "Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, "You are too severe with yourself. That the child is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the police authorities: they will help us." He turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch.