"But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think."
"Tell me what you think, Ronald."
"I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't believe he could do that kind of thing."
"Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as though Agnes spoke the truth."
"I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin."
"Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father coming to fetch him.
"She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to go to the country—perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be unselfish, and never to make a fuss—he hated boys who made a fuss. Oh yes, I did believe it; and on Saturday night and on Sunday, when Big Ben talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would soon be with me. But a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. Why, it's Saturday night again, Connie. I've been back again in this house for a whole week now, and father has never, never come."
"Maybe he'll come to-night," said Connie.
"I don't think so; somehow I'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was coming back."
"What do yer mean by that?" said Connie.