e
factory, but I'll be discontent no more."

"You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think God wants you to
be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't
have let you go through so much."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave."

CHAPTER XIII.

PETER HARRIS.

While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's
attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly
distracted about her.

Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of
drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has
been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for
Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his
sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty,
motherless girl.

As day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic
with anxiety. At first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance,
saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when
a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and Sue assured him
that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in Cheapside
where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last
with Agnes Coppenger, and that Agnes Coppenger had also disappeared from
her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had
happened.

Father John was consulted, and Father John advised the necessity of at
once acquainting the police. But although the police did their best,
they could get no trace whatever either of Agnes or of Connie.

Thus the days passed, and Connie's friends were very unhappy about her.
Her absence had a bad effect on Peter, who, from his state of grief and
uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace
which he was fond of frequenting. Every night now he came home tipsy,
and the neighbors were afraid to go near. Soon he began to abuse Connie,
to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any
neighbor who mentioned her name.

Giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of Big
Ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship
of pretty Connie. But now at last the girl herself was going home. She
had no fear. She was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. How often
she had longed for her father! Connie had a great dea