"And where is mamma?"
"In a committee," answered the child.
"Humph!" said the old lady, who stood close at the policeman's side, "in a committee, with a parcel of other foolish women, I suppose, while her babies go running wild about the streets. She'd better attend to her own affairs."
"She hadn't," said Bessie, who thought every one had something to say against her own dear mother,—"she hadn't, and you are naughty to say that. She's a nice, pretty lady, and better than anybody, and not a bit foolish; and, oh, I do want her so, I do want her so!" and she began to cry afresh.
"There then, never mind!" said the policeman; "we'll find her pretty soon. Can't you tell me where you live?"
Bessie had long since been taught this, but now, in her fright and distress, she quite forgot the street and number of the house, and only shook her head.
"Tell me your name then," said the man.
"Bessie—Yush—Byad-ford," sobbed the child.
"Brightford—Brightford," repeated the policeman. "Does any one here know any people of the name of Brightford?"
Poor little Bessie! Between her sobs and the difficulty of pronouncing her r's, the officer had quite mistaken the name, and no one answered.