“That way, ma-am,” replied Tommy, pointing along the street, to Aunt Jemima’s left-hand, and his own right.
The troubled lady instantly marched, in the direction indicated, to the end of the street; but, finding that five ways branched off therefrom, she returned baffled to her brother’s house, and sought his presence once more.
“Thomas,” she cried, almost fiercely, “the child has certainly run away!”
Still “Cobbler” Horn was not alarmed.
“Well,” he said calmly, “never mind, Jemima. She has a habit of going off by herself. She knows her way about, and will not stray far. She will be back by dinner-time, no doubt.”
Though by no means satisfied, Miss Jemima was fain to accept this view of the case for the time. With a troubled mind, she resumed her suspended domestic duties. Unlikely as it might seem, she could not banish the dread that Marian had actually run away; and, as the morning passed, the fear grew stronger and stronger in the troubled lady’s breast that she would see her little niece no more. Accordingly when dinner-time arrived, Aunt Jemima was not surprised that Marian did not appear. The dinner consisted of Irish stew—Marian’s favourite dish. On the stroke of twelve it was smoking on the table. For the twentieth time the perturbed lady went to the door, and gazed wistfully up and down the street. Then, with a sigh, she re-entered the house, and called her brother to dinner.
“Cobbler” Horn, feeling sure that Marian would soon return, had dismissed the fact of her disappearance from his mind; and when, on coming in to dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise.
In reply to his inquiry, Aunt Jemima jerked out the opinion that the child would not come back at all.
“Why shouldn’t she?” he asked. “I’ve known her stay away longer than this, and there’s no occasion for alarm.”
So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but Miss Jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but a poor pretence.