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, father," said Connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all--Sue ain't there!"
"Not there? Not to 'ome?" thundered Harris.
"No, father--she ha' niver come back. It's goin' on for twelve o'clock--an' Giles expected her soon arter six! She ain't come back, 'ave Sue. Wottever is to be done, father?"
Harris walked to the fire and poked it into a fierce blaze. Then he turned his back on Connie, and began to fumble with his neck-tie, tightening it and putting it in order.
"Father," said Connie again, "may I go and spend the night 'long o' Giles? He's too weakly to be left."
"No," said Harris; "I won't leave yer out o' my sight. Ef there's kidnappin' about an' it looks uncommon like it--you stay safe within these four walls."
"Yus--why not? Ef there's kidnappin' about, there's niver any sayin' w'en Sue may be back. I'll go and fetch him now, and you can get that sofy ready for him; he can sleep on it. There--I'm off! Sue--God knows wot's come o' Sue; but Giles, e' sha'n't want."
Harris opened the door, went out, and shut it again with a bang. Connie waited within the room. She was trembling with a strange mixture of fear and joy. How strange her father was--and yet he was good too! He was not drunk to-night. That was wonderful. It was sweet of him to think of bringing Giles to Connie's home, where Connie could look after him and give him the best food, and perhaps save his life. Children as inexperienced as Connie are apt to take a cheerful view even when things are at their lowest. Connie instantly imagined that Giles in his new and far more luxurious surroundings would quickly recover.
She began eagerly to prepare a place for him. She dragged a mattress from her own bed, and managed to put it on the sofa; then she unlocked a trunk which always stood in the sitting-room; she knew where to find the key. This trunk had belonged to her mother, and contained some of that mother's clothing, and also other things.
Connie selected from its depths a pair of thin and very fine linen sheets. These she aired by the fire, and laid them over the mattress when they were quite warm. There was a blanket, white and light and very warm, which was also placed over the linen sheets; and a down pillow was found which Connie covered with a frilled pillow-case; and finally she took out the most precious thing of all--a large crimson and gold shawl, made of fine, fine silk, which her mother used to wear, and which Connie dimly remembered as thinking too beautiful for this world. But nothing was too beautiful for little Giles; and the couch with its crimson covering was all ready for him when Harris reappeared, bearing the boy in his arms.