ach of another event of still more serious consequence.

It was no time for modesty, not from me at all events, so while the
Father's head was down, I asked plainly if there was a child, and was
told there was, and the fear of having it taken from her (I could
understand that) was perhaps the reason my poor darling had hidden
herself away.

"And now, when, where, and by whom was she seen last?" I asked.

"Last week, and again to-day, to-night, here in the West End--by a
fallen woman," answered the Sister.

"And what conclusion do you draw from that?"

The Sister hesitated for a moment and then said:

"That her child is dead; that she does not know you are alive; and that
she is throwing herself away, thinking there is nothing left to live
for."

"What?" I cried. "You believe that? Because she left that brute of a
husband . . . and because she came to me . . . you believe that she
could. . . . Never! Not Mary O'Neill! She would beg her bread, or die in
the streets first."

I dare say my thickening voice was betraying me; but when I looked at
Mildred and saw the tears rolling down her cheeks and heard her excuses
(it was "what hundreds of poor women were driven to every day"), I was
ashamed and said so, and she put her kind hand in my hand in token of
her forgiveness.

"But what's to be done now?" she asked.

O'Sullivan was for sending for the police, but I would not hear of that.
I was beginning to feel as I used to do when I lost a comrade in a
blizzard down south, and (without a fact or a clue to guide me) sent a
score of men in a broad circle from the camp (like spokes in a wheel) to
find him or follow back on their tracks.

There were only four of us, but I mapped out our courses, where we were
to go, when we were to return, and what we were to do if any of us found
my lost one--take her to Sister's flat, which she gave the address of.

It was half-past eleven when we started on our search, and I dare say
our good old Father Dan, after his fruitless journeys, thought it a
hopeless quest. But I had found myself at last. My spirits which had
been down to zero had gone up with a bound. I had no ghost of an idea
that I had been called home from the 88th latitude for nothing. And I
had no fear that I had come too late.

Call it frenzy if you like--I don't much mind what people call it. But I
was as sure as I have ever been of anything in this life, or ever expect
to be, that the sufferings of my poor marty