Warden spent all that night looking for Roy. He went to the police
courts; he got detectives even to his aid. By the morning
advertisements were placarded about, and rewards were offered for the
missing child. He did all that could be done, and was assured by the
police that whoever had stolen little Roy away would now certainly bring
him back. Warden was a carpenter by trade. He was engaged now over a
job which was to be finished by a given time, and which would, when
completed, pay him handsomely. He had engaged to have it done by this
date, and he was a man who had never yet failed in his appointments.
But for all that he came home that morning, and never thought of going
out again to work. His whole heart, and soul, and energies were
concentrated, waiting and listening for a little voice, for the sight of
a dear golden head, the return of the blue-eyed boy who was his own, and
whom now that he had lost, he knew, indeed, to be bone of his bone,
flesh of his flesh. So near, so precious had little Roy become, that
without him it would be agony to live. Warden went home, and saw on the
floor some of the scattered fragments of his torn essay. The pieces he
had been laboriously trying to put together when Faith had come to him
with the news that little Roy had ran away, still lay on the table. In
the grate were some burnt-out ashes; the room was untidy--dusty. It had
not been touched since last night. It was Faith's duty to make this
room ready for breakfast; and, as a rule, Warden would have been angry
with her for its present state of neglect; but this morning he said
nothing, only when his eyes rested on the torn pieces of the essay he
uttered a groan, and, stooping down, he picked them all up and put them
in the grate. There he set fire to them. When they had been reduced to
a few white ashes he sat down on the horse-hair sofa and wondered when
Faith would appear. She came in presently from the inner room, and
Warden roused himself to say, in a new and wonderfully kind tone:
"I ha' had rewards put up, and the detectives are on the watch. We'll
have him home werry soon, Faithy."
Faith did not make any answer. There was a queer, dull, almost stupid
look on her face. She moved half-mechanically about the room, getting
her father's breakfast and pouring it out for him as if nothing had
happened. When she gave him his cup of hot coffee, she even seated
herself in her accustomed place opposite. Roy's little empty chair was
pushed against the wall. Faith moved her own so that her eyes should
not rest on this symbol of the lost child.
"Eat some breakfast, Faith," said her father; then he added, in a tone
which he endeavoured to render cheerful, "The little chap 'ull be back
very soon, I guess. Do you hear me, Faith? I expect little Roy to be
brought back almost immediately."
"Yes, father," answered Faith. She raised her dull eyes to his face.
He saw not a gleam of either hope or belief in them, and, unable to
endure the despair of the little daughter whom he had never loved, he
pushed back his chair and left the room. The moment he did so Faith
breathed a slight sigh of relief. She left the breakfast-table, and,
getting a chair, she mounted it and took down from a high shelf an old
and dusty copy of the Bible. It was a copy she had seen in her mother's
hands. She had watched her dying mother read in this old Bible, and
smile and look happy as she read. Afterwards Faith had tried herself to
read in the old book. But one day her father, seeing it lying about,
and feeling that it reminded him of his wife, who never had it very far
from her side, had put it up out of the children's reach, and Faith had
hitherto been too timid to dare to take it down; but there was nothing
at all timid about the little girl's movements to-day. An absorbing
agony of grief and pain was filling her poor little heart to the utter
exclusion of all lesser feelings. She fetched down the old Bible from
its dusty hiding-place, because it had come back to her memory in the
long hours of the wakeful night she had just gone through, that the
Sunday teacher who had given her that sweet and peaceful lesson the day
before had said that the Bible was full of stories about Jesus. If only
she _could_ find the place where he took the babies in His arms, and was
so good and kind to them. Perhaps if she found the account of the story
she might also learn how the mothers and the sisters--for surely there
must have been little sad orphan sisters like her in that group--she
might learn how they came to Jesus with the babies; she might find out
how He was to be found now. Her teacher had said He was not dead. The
neighbour down-stairs had said He was not dead. Then, if that was so,
would not the very best thing Faith could do be to go to Him first
herself, and tell Him that Roy was lost--that he had gone quite, quite
far away, and ask Him to help her to find him? She placed the Bible on
the table, got a duster, and, tenderly removing its dust, opened it. It
was a large book--a book with a great, great deal of writing, and Faith
wondered how soon she could find this particular story that she longed
for. She could read very slowly, and very badly. She might be a long
time seeing the place where Jesus blessed the babies; but here
unlooked-for help was at hand. Faith's dead mother, too, had loved this
special story. The place opened at the very page, and, to help Faith
still further, the words were heavily marked with a pencil.
Yes, it was all there; all that the ragged girl had told her yesterday.
Faith had a vivid imagination, and she saw the whole picture--she saw
the waiting mothers and the lovely baby children. She saw the angry
disciples trying to send them away, and the face of the dear Saviour of
the whole world as, taking one after the other of these lambs in His
arms, He said, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid
them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Faith read the story over and over until she really knew it all by
heart. Yes, it was all there, but one difficulty was not over. She had
read with her own eyes the story, but she saw nothing in the sacred
words to help her special need--nothing about where Jesus lived now,
nothing of how she, Faith, could go to Him, and ask Him to help her to
find her little brother. She had less doubt than ever in her own mind
of His perfect willingness to help her--of His perfect power to find Roy
again. But how could she find Him? In what part of vast London did
Jesus live now?
Faith returned the old Bible into its place. She had found out what it
could tell her. Who was there who could give her the further knowledge
for which she craved? On one point, however, she had quite made up her
mind. With the aid of Jesus, or without, she must go herself to find
her little brother. This course of action seemed to her right, and
clear as daylight. It was all very well to talk of police and
detectives searching for the child. Faith did not know anything about
such people. Knowing nothing, she believed not at all in their power,
but she did believe most fully in the power of her own great love.
Surely no one else in all the world could distinguish Roy's little face
so far away; no one else could detect the clear ring of his voice in the
roar and din of London. The little child had run away in fear and
loneliness; but Faith, by the strength and power of her love, could
bring him back again. She did not think at all about her father. She
failed either to see or comprehend his new-born affection or anxiety.
Her little heart felt hard against him; he had been cruel to her darling
baby boy, and Faith could make no allowance for the torn prize essay.
Her father was hard and cruel to every one. Faith did not pity him; nor
did she believe in the least in _his_ ability to bring the lost child
home. No, this must be her task. She tied on her hat, and put on her
out-door jacket, and ran down-stairs, for she had not a moment to lose.
At the foot of the stairs she met the neighbour who had come into their
room the evening before. She stopped her for a moment.
"Please, Mrs Mason, 'ull you tell father as I ha' gone out to look for
Roy?"
"Bless us, child!" exclaimed the good-natured woman; "but you do look
real bad. I think as I wouldn't go out, Honey; the little 'un will be
brought back now they has put it inter the hands of the perleece."
"I know best how to find him--please 'ull you tell father?" answered
Faith in her quiet little voice, and the woman did not trouble to detain
her further.