"So do I, deary; but mayhap she's loitered somewhere, an' it's a good way she has to walk, an' there's the fog hinderin' of her. It'll be hard to pick her way through it."
The twilight deepened, and the evening waned, and Ailie's mother did not come. No tap at the door; no sound of approaching footsteps, save those passing to other rooms. Ailie wondered and waited, and waited and wondered, and grew somewhat sad in her suspense; for that forlorn and tempted woman had been a tender mother to her in the past.
"Maybe she's ashamed to show her face," murmured Job. "Fresh out of jail—no wonder. I'll go an' take a look for her."
Telling the children to remain where they were, he went down the staircase, and out into the street. It was almost deserted. Job peered about through the darkness, walked up and down the pavement once or twice, and made inquiries as to whether aught had been seen or heard of Mrs. Carter; but it was all in vain. He went up-stairs again, and told Ailie her mother had not come, nor was she likely now to do so before next day.
"Maybe some'at has hindered her," said Ailie hopefully. "I dare say we'll see her in the mornin'."
The morning was fine, and wonderfully clear for November; but no mother came. All through the long day Ailie watched, and waited, and vainly hoped; but still no Mrs. Carter made her appearance.
They could not think what might be the reason. Job in his anxiety went to the Forsyths,' and John Forsyth, having a day unhappily free from work, as was too often the case now, went off to the prison itself, undertaking the long walk out of simple kindness. He learnt there that she had been set free at the time expected, and one person, who had spoken some kind words to her on her leaving, believed she had talked of returning to her old quarters, to inquire after the whereabouts of her child. Beyond that, John Forsyth failed to meet with any traces of the poor woman's movements.
All the next day they did not give up hope; but that day passed, and the next also, and others after, and she did not come. Job Kippis and John Forsyth ceased to hope for news of her. Whatever was the cause of her absence, and whether it were through choice or compulsion, they had no means of learning any more. To all intents and purposes, little Ailie was an orphan, cast adrift upon the wide world, utterly dependent upon charity.
