“And will you help me to get my little girl? Oh, how good you are! Everybody is saying what a Father it is that's come to——” She stopped, then said quite soberly: “I'll get somebody to lend me a shawl to bring 'er 'ome in. People say they pawn everything, and perhaps the beautiful white perlice I bought for 'er ... Oh, I'll never let 'er out of my sight again, never!”
“What is your name, my girl?”
“Agatha Jones,” the girl answered.
It was nearly eleven o'clock on Sunday night before they were ready to start on their errand. Meantime Aggie had done two turns at the foreign clubs, and John Storm had led a procession through Crown Street and been hit by a missile thrown by a “Skeleton,” whom he declined to give in charge. At the corner of the alley he stopped to ask Mrs. Pincher to wait up for him, and the girl's large eyes caught sight of the patch of plaster above his temple.
“Are you sure you want to go, sir?” she said.
“There's no time to lose,” he answered. The bloodhound was with him; he had sent home for it since the attempted riot.
As they walked toward Westminster she told him where she had been, and what money she had earned. It was ten shillings, and that would buy so many things for baby.
“To-morrow I'll get a cot for her—one of those wicker ones; iron is so expensive. She'll want a pair o' socks too, and by-and-bye she'll 'ave to be shortened.”
John Storm was thinking of Glory. He seemed to be retreading the steps of her life in London. The dog kept close at his heels.
“She'll 'a bin a month away now, a month to-morrow. I wonder if she's grow'd much—I wonder! It's wrong of people letting their childring go away from them. I'll never go out at nights again—not if I 'ave to tyke in sewin' for the slop shops. See this?” laughing nervously and showing a shawl that hung on her arm. “It's to bring 'er 'ome in—the nights is so chill for a byeby.”