"Thank you, sir," said Connie. The man pulled a card--it looked just like a gentleman's visiting card--out of his pocket.

"Will you take that," he said, "to No. 12 Carlyle Terrace? It's just round the corner. Take your little brother with you. There are two bells to the house. Look for the one that has the word 'Night' written under it. It used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. My mother will understand--give her that card, and tell her what has happened. Good night."

He turned away. It was some time before Connie and Ronald could get rid of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. Offers of a shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to Connie from all sorts of people. But she had made up her mind to follow out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that she had friends at No. 12 Carlyle Terrace, she and Ronald soon started off to go to the address the fireman had given them.

They were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone through at first, but when they reached the house, and Connie pressed the b.u.t.ton of the bell which had the word "Night" written under it, she was trembling exceedingly.

"Why are we coming here?" asked Ronald.

"I dunno," said Connie. "Seems as though a hangel was with us all the time."

"I expect so," answered Ronald in a very weak voice.

"And," continued Connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere."

They had pressed the bell, and quickly--wonderfully quickly--they heard steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall woman--very tall and very thin--with a beautiful pale face and soft motherly eyes.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is the matter? Oh, my poor little dears!

And how you smell of fire! Have you been in a fire?"

"Please, ma'am," said Connie, "be yer the mother o' Mr. George Anderson--the bravest fireman, ma'am? He told me to give yer this card, ma'am."

"I am Mrs. Anderson. Oh, of course, if he's sent you----"

"_'E_ saved us from the fire, ma'am," said Connie.

"Come in, you poor little things," said Mrs Anderson. She drew the children in; she shut the door behind them. It seemed to Connie when that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for within the house there was warmth--not only warmth for frozen little bodies, but for tired souls.

Mrs. Anderson was one of the most motherly women in London; and George, her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her.

Soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water, and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. But Mrs. Anderson sat by them both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face, and felt very much afraid of the shock for him.

"The little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "She's a beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. She has been accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's different--he's a gentleman by birth. Something very cruel has happened to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw."

Mrs. Anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little Ronald were all too quickly realized. By the morning the boy was in a high state of fever. A doctor was summoned, and Mrs. Anderson herself nursed him day and night. Connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her request was granted.

"For the present you shall stay with me," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but I am determined to save his life if I can."

"I can tell yer something," said Connie. "Little Ronald's a real gent--_'e's_ the son of a hofficer in 'Is Majesty's harmy, an' the hofficer's name is Major Harvey, V. C."

"What?" cried Mrs. Anderson. She started back in amazement. "Why, I knew him and his wife," she said. "I know he was killed in South Africa, and I know his dear wife died about a year ago. Why, I've been looking for this child. Is your story quite true, little girl?"

"Yus, it's quite true," said Connie. "But tell me--do tell me--is his father really dead?"

"I fear so. It is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but he has been missing for over two years."

"Ma'am," said Connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein'

confirmed?"

"I mean this, little girl," said Mrs. Anderson--"that his body was never found."

"Then he ain't dead," said Connie.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel it in my bones," said Connie, "same as Ronald felt it in his bones. _'E_ ain't dead."

Mrs. Anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair.

"I am getting in a real trained nurse to look after Ronald Harvey," she said. "If he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care now; and you this evening, little Connie, shall tell me your story."

This Connie did. When she had described all that had occurred to her during the last few weeks, Mrs. Anderson was so amazed that she could hardly speak.

"My poor child!" she said. "You can't guess what terrible dangers you've escaped. That dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large gang of burglars. Several have been arrested within the last day or two, and I have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts."

"Burglars?" said Connie--"burglars? Them be thieves, bean't they?"

"Yes--thieves."

"But what could she do with us?" said Connie.

"She used you for her own purposes. While people were looking at you, she was doubtless picking their pockets. Don't think any more about it, dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. And now, don't you feel very anxious about your father and your old friends?"

"Yus," said Connie. "I'd like to go home. I'd like them to know once for all what happened."

"Would you like to go back to-night? You can return to me, you know. I shall be up with Ronald until far into the night."

Connie rose swiftly.

"You're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?"

"Oh no, ma'am. I'm only quite an ordinary girl. I ha' learnt my lesson," continued Connie. "I were real discontent wid my life at the factory, but I'll be discontent no more."

"You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think G.o.d wants you to be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't have let you go through so much."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave."

CHAPTER XIII.

PETER HARRIS.

While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly distracted about her.

Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty, motherless girl.