“And how ere you getting on widhout yer mother?” asked Hannah. “But I needn’t go fur to axe,” she continued, “fur though you ain’t much to boast on now, Meg, yet you look more peart than when she wor allers a wallopping of yer.”
“But I have a h’anxiety on my mind,” said Meg, shrugging her thin shoulders and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “I ha’ a gal along wid me, and a young gal wot ain’t none of h’our people. You might ha’ noticed her, Hannah, when you was walking down Middle Street.”
“Yes,” answered Hannah, “she looked a white-faced, mealy-mouthed little ’un. I mind me as I thought as I had seen her somewhere afore.”
“Her father is a carpenter, Hannah, a werry, werry upper kind o’ carpenter. She’s real respectable, is Faithy. And wot does yer think? She have a little brother, a little lovely duck of a child, and he went out o’ the house on Sunday night last and got losted, and this poor little Faith, she’s near distracted. She and me, we’re a looking fur the young ’un h’everywhere. I thought as I’d tell yer, Hannah, fur you see’s a deal o’ life, and you might ha’ noticed as they ha’ put him in the h’advertisements, and ten pound offered fur him.”
Hannah Searles had perfect control of feature.
“I ha’ seen about a missing child,” she said after a moment’s pause. “A child h’aged two year, dressed in blue, wid real gold ’air?”
“Yes, yes,” said Meg. “Oh! Hannah, ef you could only help us to find of him—I think as Faith ull die ef he ain’t found.”
“I’ll keep my h’eyes open,” said Hannah, and then she nodded to Meg and went back to her cellar.
She was trembling all over as she stumbled down the stairs. But when she had securely locked the door and lighted a long dip candle and had seen with her own eyes little Roy sleeping quietly, she became calmer. She went over and knelt by the bed, and took one of the little hands in hers.
“I’d rayther be torn in bits, nor give h’up this little hand,” she said to herself.