“Cobbler” Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head.
“Mammy is very ill, Marian,” he said gently.
“Me ’ant to see mammy,” was the emphatic response.
“By and bye, darling,” replied the father huskily.
“What ’oo going to c’y for, daddy?” demanded the child, looking up hastily into her father’s face. “Poor daddy!” she continued, stroking his cheek with her small brown hand, “Isn’t ’oo very well?”
“I’m not going to cry, darling,” said the father, bowing his head over his child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still rested against his face. “You don’t understand, my poor child!”
There followed a brief pause.
“P’ease, daddy,” pleaded Marian presently, “Ma-an must see mammy. Dere’s such pitty fings in se shops, and me ’ants to do with mammy to see dem—in morning.”
The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations.
Marian’s father gave a great gasp.