ing in to
dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise.

In reply to his inquiry, Aunt Jemima jerked out the opinion that the child
would not come back at all.

"Why shouldn't she?" he asked. "I've known her stay away longer than this,
and there's no occasion for alarm."

So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but
Miss Jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but
a poor pretence.

"Don't be so much alarmed, Jemima," said her brother, making progress with
his dinner. "I've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. By and bye
I'll go out and hunt her up."

He still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. He
accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was
not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at
last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set
out in search of his missing child.

All the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and
friendly neighbours; but no one had seen Marian, or knew anything as to
her whereabouts. Every now and then he returned home, to see if the child
had come back. But each time he found only Aunt Jemima, sitting before the
fire like an image of grim despair. She would look up with fierce
eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she
saw that he was alone.

Long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place
to serious alarm. He was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find
Marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had
not yet come home of her own accord. While he would not, even now, believe
that Marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost.
But what was that? He had turned once more towards home, and had entered
his own street, and there was Marian, playing with some other children, on
the pavement, just in front. Her back was towards him, as she bent down
over her play. But there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair,
and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock.
With the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands
and lifted the child from the ground. Then he uttered a cry. It was not
Marian after all! He put her down--he almost let her drop, and the
startled child began to cry. "Cobbler" Horn hastily pushed a penny into
her hand, and