"I didn't know that," murmured Sandy. "I don't know nothin'. I don't know as my little Gip is dead. I'd rather have her than let Him have her. She were so fond of me; and I could make her happy, I could; and keep her safe. I never see Him as you speak of, or heard tell of Him afore now. Gip didn't know Him any more than me, and she'd be a deal happier with me; and wherever she is, she'll fret for Sandy, as used to give her peppermint and candy, and carry her to look at the pretty shops. If Lord Jesus finds her, He ought to give her up to me again; for it isn't Him as has nursed her, and took care of her ever since she were born."
Sandy's shyness had worn off whilst he spoke out his mind; and now he faced the lame boy with an expression of indignation, almost of angry defiance, at the thought that anybody had a greater claim to Gip, or could make her happier than he.
The stranger looked somewhat saddened and perplexed; but he kept his hand on Sandy's shoulder, to prevent him from running away from him.
"I wish you would come and talk to mother about it," he said, after a pause. "She's had three children that are dead, and she says they are happier than they could have been with her. If little Gip is not dead, mother will know what to do, and how to set about finding her, for she's the cleverest woman in all London; and I'll help you to search for her. I'm not strong enough to work; but when it is a fine day like this, I can get about on my crutches, and go farther than you'd think. I call them my wings. Yes, I'll search for little Gip, as well as you, if you'll come along with me, and tell mother."
Sandy hesitated a little. Compared with him, the lame boy was so grand that he scarcely dared go home with him; but there was the hope of getting advice and help in seeking Gip, and he could not lose any chance. He watched the stranger getting himself balanced on his crutches with a new and tender sense of pity, and the very feeling that he could so easily run away from him kept him closer at his side. He would have walked behind him, but the boy did not seem to understand that.
"Keep close to me," he said; "I want to talk to you. My name is John Shafto, and we live in the place I'm taking you to. Tell me what your name is, and where you live, while we are going along. See! I can get on with my wings as fast as you, unless you run."
He was keeping up with Sandy quite easily, his white face turned towards him full of eager interest and friendliness. Sandy had never seen a face or heard a voice like his.
"My name's Sandy Carroll, sir," he answered, pressing nearer to John Shafto, for all his reserve had melted away like frost in the sunshine, "and mother's called Nance Carroll. She's never anythink else but drunk. If she's sober a bit of a mornin', it don't last longer than she can get a few coppers. I was a-gettin' afeard little Gip 'ud take to it, for mother 'ud give her drops of gin and such like; but now she's lost, I don't know what 'll become of her. Maybe it 'ud be better for her to die, and go to that place you spoke of, only I don't see how she's to get in. If I'd known of it before, I'd have tried to get Tom and little Vic took in, but it's too late now. They're buried and done for, I s'pose."
He spoke very regretfully, for he had been fond of Tom and little Vic, though they were nothing to Gip, who had lived to learn the pretty tricks he could teach her. Yet he was grieved to think that perhaps he could have managed to get these babies taken into a good place, where they would never be hungry or cold again, if he had only known of it.
"If Tom and little Vic are dead," answered John Shafto, "they are gone to heaven. Every little child goes there when it dies."