Mary hesitated. She knew it was too true that her father, after a couple of hours at the Wheatsheaf, at fair-time too, was not likely to come out in a state to give any reasonable help. Every moment the curtain of dusk seemed to descend lower and lower above that flaring street; the shadows, the dark corners, the crowd that thickened perpetually—all made it harder from moment to moment to find what was lost. And yet—"They must be found!" said Mary to herself: though she wondered how long her brain would bear the bewilderment, the pushing, the noise and clamour in which this search had to be carried on.
If she could only see or speak to some respectable person with a grain of feeling and sense! But alas! as a rule, such persons were not to be met with at Carsham Fair.
As she looked round with distracted eyes, there was a sudden movement in the little crowd that surrounded them, and Lizzie Alfrick broke through and rushed to her mother, burying her face in her gown.
Mary's joyful exclamation was checked upon her lips. For the child was alone and crying bitterly; there was no sign of Lily; and then a terror seized on Mary, compared with which her former anxiety had been nothing. Now, for the first time, she had to think of John's treasure, John's Lily, really alone, deserted and lost in the fair.
For a minute the confusion was too great; Mrs. Alfrick's sobs and scoldings, Lizzie's screams, the loud chatter of the people standing by—Mary could do nothing in the midst of all this. But presently she took Lizzie's hand and pulled her away from her mother.
"There, stop that noise," she said impatiently. "Be a good girl and tell me where Lily is."
"I don't know," said Lizzie, looking solemnly up into her face. "We lost each other. We was dancing to the organ over there, and it got so dark, and a man brought a lantern, and then I couldn't see a bit; and I went dancing round the trees and come back again, and Lily was gone, and then I couldn't find mother; and I went back to the house and they drove me out and telled me not to come bothering there. I thought I was lost too."
"But why were you such naughty children as not to stop where mother told you till she came out? If you had, I should have seen you there," said Mary.
"We didn't go far off. Only as far as them big trees, Polly. We went and picked up chestnuts—and then there was a man playing the organ and some children dancing, and we came and danced too. There was a woman too, and she brought Lily a stick of candy and said she was the prettiest little girl she ever saw in her life. Lily gave me half."
"Who was the woman? Did she belong to the house down there—the Travellers' Joy?"