selfish gel as could be found in the whole o' Lunnun. Pore Mammy Warren
was told of the sudden death of her sister, and that's all the sympathy
you guvs her. Wery different she behaves to you and Ronald. 'Hagnes,'
says she, 'tike those pore children for a run,' says she, 'and bring
them 'ome safe in time for dinner,' says she, 'an' give 'em some roast
mutton for dinner, poor darlin's,' says Mammy Warren; and then she falls
to cryin', and 'Oh, my sister!' she says, and 'Oh, poor Georgina!' she
sobs. Now then, the pair of yer--out we goes, and I'll go wid yer."

Quick as thought Agnes accomplished her purpose, and the two prettily
dressed children--Connie with her hair down her back, Ronald looking
like a little prince--found themselves in the street. But if the two
children thought that they had the slightest chance of running away they
were terribly mistaken, for Agnes proved even a sharper taskmistress
than Mrs. Warren. She seemed to Connie to have suddenly got quite old
and very cruel and determined. She walked the children here, and she
walked them there. They peered into shop windows and got into crowds,
but they did no shopping that morning. Connie was rather glad of that,
and now she was so accustomed to being stared at that she hardly took
any notice; while as to Ronald, his sweet brown eyes looked full up into
the face of every gentleman who passed, in the faint hope of discovering
his father again.

It seemed to Connie that they were out longer than usual; but at last
they did come back. Then, to their great surprise, they found the door
of Mammy Warren's sitting-room wide opened.

"My word! 'ow can this 'ave 'appened?" said Agnes.

They all went in, and Agnes went straight to the bedroom. She came out
presently, wearing a very grave face, and told the children that she
greatly feared poor Mammy Warren had gone off her head with grief--that
there wasn't a sign of her in the bedroom, nor anywhere in the house.

"And she's took her things, too," said Agnes. "Wull, now--wull, I must
go and search for her. Yer dinner's in the oven, children, and I'll come
back to see 'ow yer be sometime to-night, p'rhaps."

"Wull Mammy Warren come back to-night?" asked Connie.

"I don't know--maybe the poor soul is in the river by now. She wor took
wery bad, thinkin' of her sister, Georgina. I'll lock yer in, of course,
children, and yer can eat yer dinner and think o' yer mercies."

CHAPTER XII.

LEFT ALONE.

Wh