When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.
"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream—I must be mistook, of course, but I thought Connie had come back."
"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."
"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair.
"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"
"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o' breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"
All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.
"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"
"You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice. "She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you—you turned her away, Peter Harris."