ept downstairs
again, and, slipping the bolt off the door, had taken up her position
there. And there George Paterson had found her, pale and worn with
sleepless sorrow, and with an aching sense of loss which was well-nigh
hopeless.

CHAPTER III.

"_AN HONEST BOY._"

When little Miss Joy had tripped across the row to her own door, Mrs.
Harrison had gone into the house.

The shutters were being taken down from several of the windows, blinds
were drawn up, doors opened, and the row was waking to life and the
business of life.

Mrs. Harrison went about her usual work of clearing up and dusting and
sweeping, and about half-past six she called a boy from one of the
opposite houses to take down the shutters of the little shop front.

The boy looked wistfully at her sad face, and asked, "Is Jack ill,
please, ma'am?"

"No, not ill," she answered, unwilling to spread the news that he had
run away; "not ill; but I am up early."

The boy asked no further question, but said to himself, "Something is
up; and here comes Mr. Paterson!"

"Have you found him?" Patience asked, under her breath. "Any news?
Any news?"

George passed into the house, for he did not wish to excite observation.

"No--no direct news; but I hear some ships got under weigh about three
o'clock. The tide served, and it is just likely that the boy is aboard
one. Don't you think me unfeeling now if I say, it is just as well he
should go; he may learn a lesson you couldn't teach him."

"The same story, the same trial over again! Oh, how can I bear it?"
Patience said, in a voice that filled the honest heart of George
Paterson with deep pity and almost deeper pain.

"Well," he said, "this wrangling here was bad for all parties. The boy
was always in hot water."

"Because she was so cross-grained--because she hated him. Oh, I
cannot, cannot bear to think of it!"

"Pray," said a sharp, shrill voice from the bottom step of the very
narrow staircase which led into the still narrower passage, "pray, what
is all this about?"

"Jack never came home last night," Patience said in a voice of
repressed emotion. "He never came home. He is gone, and I shall never
see him again."

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was the reply. "Bad pennies always turn up. I
never knew one in my life that was lost. Mark my words, you have not
seen the last of him--worse luck."

"That's not a very pleasant way to talk, Miss Pinckney: you'll excuse
me for saying so," said