me and had been kidnapped again.

"We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about
here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren,
we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father
John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out."

Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early--very
early--in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had
slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a
queer feeling that something very bad had happened.

When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream--I must be mistook, of course,
but I thought Connie had come back."

"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."

"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown
himself, and pushed back his rough hair.

"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have
a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"

"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o'
breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"

All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.

"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say
so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"

"You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice.
"She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you--you turned her away,
Peter Harris."

"I did wot?" said Harris.

"You turned her off--yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too
much and didn't know what you were doing."

The man's face was ghastly pale.

"What do yer mean?" he said.

"You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in
bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I assured her that I
know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome
her home in the morning."

"Well, and so I be. Welcome my lass home? There ain't naught I wouldn't
do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear,
sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave--the Prodigal didn't
have a bigger welcome."

"But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin.
Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong,
perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She
was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because