eddler could be
heard saying:

"We'll mak' thee king ower the cockers, my canny lad."

The canny lad was slinking away amid a derisive titter, when a great
silence fell on the booth. Those in front fell back, and those behind
craned their necks to see over the heads of the people before them.

At the mouth of the booth stood the old Laird Fisher, his face ghastly
pale, his eyes big and restless, the rain dripping from his long hair
and beard.

"They've telt me," he began in a strange voice, "they've telt me that my
Mercy has gone off in the London train. I reckon they're mistook as to
the lass, but I've come to see for mysel'. Is she here?"

None answered. Only the heavy rain-drops that pattered on the canvas
overhead broke the silence. Paul Ritson pushed his way through the
crowd.

"Mercy?--London? Wait, Matthew; I'll see if she's here."

The Laird Fisher looked from face to face of the people about him.

"Any on you know owt about her?" he asked in a low voice. "Why don't you
speak, some on you? You shake your heads--what does that mean?"

The old man was struggling to control the emotion that was surging in
his throat.

"No, Matthew, she's not here," said Paul Ritson.

"Then maybe it's true," said Matthew, with a strange quiet.

There was a pause. Paul was the first to shake off his surprise.

"She might be at Little Town--in Keswick--twenty places."

"She might be, Master Paul, but she's nowt o' the sort. She's on her way
to London, Mercy is."

It was Natt, the stableman at the Ghyll, who spoke.

At that the old man's trance seemed to break.

"Gone! Mercy gone! Gone without a word! Why? Where?"

"She'd her little red bundle aside her; and she cried a gay bit to
hersel' in the corner. I saw her mysel'."

Paul's face became rigid with anger.

"There's villainy in this--be sure of that!" he said, hotly.

The laird rocked his head backward and forward, and his eyes swam with
tears; but he stood in the middle as quiet as a child.

"My laal Mercy," he said, faintly, "gone from her old father."

Paul stepped to the old man's side, and put a great hand on his shoulder
as softly as a woman might have soothed her babe. Then turning about,
and glancing wrathfully in the faces around them, he said:

"Some waistrel has been at work here. Who is he? Speak out. Anybody
know?"

No one spoke. Only the laird moaned feebly, and reeled like a drunken
man. Then, with the first shock over, the old man began