ad, and Sue not returned," cried another.
"I 'ope Sue's not kidnapped too. It's awful w'en folks come to
kidnappin' one's kids."

While the women were talking Connie made her escape, and soon entered
her father's room. She gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension
when she saw him there. Was he drunk? Would he again turn her out into
the street? She didn't know--she feared. Peter Harris, however, was
sober. That had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made
it quite impossible for him ever to drink again.

He looked at Connie with a strange nervousness.

"Wull," he said, "you _be_ late! And 'ow's Giles?"

He did not dare to ask for Sue. His hope--for he had a hope--was that
Sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had
transferred to her pocket. In that case he might somehow manage to get
it away again without her knowing anything whatever with regard to his
vile conduct. If God was good enough for that, why, then indeed He was a
good God, and Harris would follow Him to his dying day. He would go to
the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious,
church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his
lips. He had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful
remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of
saving Sue at his own expense. If only she had escaped unsuspected, then
indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very
devils of hell might enter into his heart.

"'Ow's Giles? 'Ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?"

"Oh father," said Connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze
at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "Giles is wery, wery bad--I 'ad
to send for the doctor. 'E come, and 'e said--ah! 'e said as 'ow little
Giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. I can't--can't speak on it!"

Connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. Harris drew a
breath at once of relief and suspicion. He was sorry, of course, for
little Giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do
with his death. It was Sue he was thinking about. Of course Sue was
there, or Connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having
returned home.

Connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through
which she had so lately passed.

"Connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no
longer, "Sue must be in great takin'--poor Sue!"

"But, f