“I thoroughly believe you,” said I, laughing. “And do you really advise him to go, granny?”
“Yes, my dear, I do,” replied Mrs Willis, in her sweet, though feeble tones. “You’ve no idea how he’s been slaving and working about me. I have strongly advised him to go, and, you know, good Mrs Jones will take his place. She’s as kind to me as a daughter.”
The mention of the word daughter set the poor creature meditating on her great loss. She sighed deeply, and turned her poor old eyes on me with a yearning, inquiring look. I was accustomed to the look by this time, and having no good news to give her, had latterly got into a way of taking no notice of it. That night, however, my heart felt so sore for her that I could not refrain from speaking.
“Ah! dear granny,” said I, laying my hand gently on her wrist, “would that I had any news to give you, but I have none—at least not at present. But you must not despair. I have failed up to this time, it is true, although my inquiries have been frequent, and carefully conducted; but you know, such a search takes a long time, and—and London is a large place.”
The unfinished muffin dropped from the old woman’s hand, and she turned with a deep sigh to the window, where the blank prospect was a not inapt reflection of her own blank despair.
“Never more!” she said, “never more!”
“Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thy countenance, and thy God,” was all that I could say in reply. Then I turned to the boy, who sat with his eyes cast down as if in deep thought, and engaged him in conversation on other subjects, by way of diverting the old woman’s mind from the painful theme.
When I rose to go, Slidder said he would call Mrs Jones to mount guard, and give me a convoy home.
No sooner were we in the street than he seized my hand, and, in a voice of unusual earnestness, said—
“I’ve got on ’er tracks!”