ormed people so
often possess.

The moment Mrs. Anderson entered the room she recognized him.

"Why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that I have the honor of
speaking to the great street preacher?"

"Not great, madam," said Father John--"quite a simple individual; but my
blessed Father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a
message to poor and sorrowful people."

"Sit down, won't you?" said Mrs. Anderson.

Father John did immediately take a chair. Mrs. Anderson did likewise.

"Now," said the widow, "what can I do for you?"

"I will tell you, madam. Her father and I are in great trouble about the
child----"

"What child?" asked Mrs. Anderson. "You surely don't mean little Connie
Harris? I have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. At her own
express wish, she went to visit her father last night. I would have sent
some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had
been about by herself in the London streets as long as she could
remember; but she has not returned."

"No, madam?"

Over Father John's face there passed a quick emotion. Then this last
hope must be given up.

"You have news of her?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"I have, and very bad news."

Father John then related his story.

"Oh, why--why did I let her go?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"Don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable
father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him."

"Oh, poor little girl!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Such a sweet child, too,
and so very beautiful!"

"Her beauty is her danger," said Father John.

"What do you mean?"

"She told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you."

"She has," said Mrs. Anderson.

"There is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that
that notorious thief, Mrs. Warren, used the child to attract people from
herself when she was stealing their goods. Mrs. Warren is one of the
most noted pickpockets in London. She has been captured, but I greatly
fear that some other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once
more."

"What can be done?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I wish my son were here. I know
he would help."

"Ah, madam," said Father John, "how proud you must be of such a son! I
think I would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the
world--yes, I believe I would rather belong to it than to my own; for
when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and torme