No; no one had seen little missie. Always the same answer until he got to the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of the performance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description of Dickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with a very pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent:
“Right you are, gaffer. The little gal’s all serene. My missus has got her in the caravan yonder.”
Guided by many outstretched and dirty fingers, Andrew made his way up the steps and told his errand to the woman within. There was Dickie, sleeping as peacefully as though she were tucked up in her own little cot; Snuff, who was curled up at her feet, jumped up and greeted Andrew with barks of delight, but even this did not rouse her.
“There,” said the woman, lifting the child gently, “you’d better take her just as she is, shawl an’ all; it’s bitter cold outside, an’ you’ll wake her else.”
She laid Dickie in the long arms stretched out to receive her, and as she did so the shawl fell back a little.
“She’s got summat in her hand,” said Andrew, glancing at the little red boot.
“So she has, bless her,” said the woman; “you’ll mind an’ bring that back with the shawl, please, mister. I set store by yonder little boot.”
Andrew stared hard at the woman. “The vicar’ll be werry grateful to you for takin’ care of the little gal,” he said. “What might be yer name, in case he should ax’ me?”
“My name’s Murphy,” she answered, “Molly Murphy; my husband’s Mr Murphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills.”
Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked from her to the little boot clutched so tightly in Dickie’s fat fist.