strode on. He staggered like one who has received a blow.
It seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms,
and she had slipped away again.

When he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence,
before the now fireless grate. On her brother's entrance, she looked
up as aforetime. "Cobbler" Horn sank despondently into a chair.

"Nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh.

"We must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a
sudden thought.

"Ah, you are tired, and hungry."

Aunt Jemima hesitated on the last word. Could her brother be hungry? She
thought she would never wish to taste food again.

"No," he said quickly; "but Marian will want her tea. Put the dinner away.
It is cold, Jemima."

"I put her plate in the oven," said Aunt Jemima, in a hollow voice, as she
rose from her seat.

"Ah!" gasped the father. The little plate had become hot and cold again,
and its contents were quite dried up. Aunt Jemima put the plate upon the
oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her
brother's face. Severe towards herself, as towards others, she
unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault.

"Brother, your child is gone; and I have driven her away."

She lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself
to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair.

"I do not ask you to forgive me. It is not to be expected of you--unless
she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself."

"Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand
lightly on her shoulder, "You are too severe with yourself. That the child
is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the
police authorities: they will help us."

He turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch.

"Jemima," he said, gently, "you must not talk about my not forgiving you.
I would try to forgive my greatest enemy, much more my own sister, who has
but done what she believed to be best."

The authorities at the police-station did what they could. Messages were
sent to every police centre in the town; and very soon every policeman on
his beat was on the look-out for the missing child. At the same time, an
officer was told off to accompany the anxious father on a personal search
for his little girl. First of all, they visited the casual ward at the
workhouse, and astonished its motley and dilapidated occupants by