"Indeed I don't," answered Sue, in great indignation. "He wor a bit rough, and used to drink a good deal, but I never heerd mortal say as he worn't as honest a man as ever stepped. Besides, Pickles, he wor a friend to me, and I wor a friend to Connie, and even ef he wished to do something so desperate wicked he couldn't, fur I wor at the other side o' the shop a'most."

"All the same," replied Pickles, shaking his fiery head, "I believe as he did it. 'Tis a desperate big mystery, but I means to clear it hup, so you leave it ter me, Cinderella."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MOTHER AND SON.

That night Mrs. Price and her younger son had a conversation.

"I do not want to send her away, Jamie," she said when they had discoursed with much interest for some time. "She shall and must stay here for the present; but it cannot go on always, for what would the poor little brother do? If Cinderella is the bread-winner, and Cinderella can earn no bread, the poor little fellow will starve."

James Price, _alias_ Pickles, was looking very sober, even thoughtful.

"It tuk a deal o' time to save hup, and 'tis rare and comforting to reflect on having it--but there's my half-crown," he said.

"Bless you, my laddie! it will help a trifle, but half-a-crown won't feed the smallest eater for long."

"Then, mother, you know I allow no one ter dictate ter me but you. Wot's to be done? Ere we to betray the hinnercent?"

"No, my lad--no. I confess I am sorely puzzled."

"But I ain't," said Pickles, who had knowingly brought his mother round to make this confession. "I ain't puzzled the least bit in life, fur I _know_ who is the real thief."

"Now, Jamie, what do you mean?"

"Mother, it were the man as went with Cinderella inter the shop; it wor he wot stole the locket and then put it inter her pocket. I don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know that _did_ do it."

"Oh! my dear boy, in your love of mystery you are allowing your imagination to run away with you. I do not think any one would be so wicked."

"Never you mind, mother; take it on trust as there's that much wickedness in this yer world. Be thankful ye're hout o' the way o'

hearing o' what's disgusting to dwell on, but this yere is a mystery as must be cleared hup. How do you s'pose, mother, as the locket did get inter Cinderella's pocket?"

"It may have slipped in as she stood by the counter."

"Oh, come, mother! that 'ud go down wid no jury as hiver walked. No, no; b'lieve me as 'tis as I say; and wot's more, 'tis my business to prove the truth o' my thoughts. There's a mystery, but James Price, _alias_ Pickles, 'ull unravel it. You keep Cinderella fur a week yere, mother, and I'll engage as the guilty party confesses by the end o' that time."

"I will keep the little girl as long as is necessary, Pickles. But do be careful. Do not allow your vivid imagination to make you unjust to others."

"You leave it ter me, mother. You jest promise faithful to keep Cinderella fur a bit, and I'll do the rest."

"Yes, Jamie," said Mrs. Price, "I certainly will make that promise."

"That's a brick o' a mother. And now I'm off to bed, fur there's nothing like sleep when the brain is much exercised, as mine is at present."

CHAPTER XXV.

ABOUT RONALD.

While poor Harris was trying to soothe the agonies of his conscience by being specially and extra good to Giles, and while Giles, who under Connie's care was recovering a certain measure of strength, and poor little Sue was still acting the part of Cinderella with Pickles as her champion, another child who plays an important part in this story was gradually recovering health and strength.

When Ronald was well enough, to come downstairs, and then to walk across Mrs. Anderson's pretty little parlor, and on a certain fine day to go out with her for a walk, the good lady thought it was full time to make inquiries with regard to his relations.

She questioned her son George on the subject, and this gallant young fireman gave her what advice he could.

"No, don't employ detectives, mother," said George. "Somehow I hate the whole lot of them. Keep Ronald as long as you want to; he's a dear little chap, and a gentleman by birth, and he loves you too."

"I want to keep him, George; the child is the greatest delight and comfort to me. He is very unlike other children--very sensitive and delicate. But I do think that if he has relations they ought to know of his whereabouts."

"You have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said George Anderson.

"No--not much; he hasn't been strong enough. I think, too, the severe illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk in, he never talks about the old days."

"Well, mother," said George, "I must be off now; duty time is close at hand." As he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been enjoying in his mother's room.

"Of course, there is little doubt that Major Harvey is dead; but you could call at the War Office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?"

"Yes, I could and will; and I won't employ detectives, my boy. You may be certain of one thing--that I don't want to part with the child."

The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Anderson felt that it was time to question Ronald with regard to his past life.

"You are quite well now, Ronald," she said.

"Yes," said Ronald, "ever so strong. I feel brave, too," he added; "it would take a very great deal to frighten me now. A soldier's boy should be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face.

"This soldier's boy is very brave," said Mrs. Anderson, patting his little hand, as the child stood close to her.

"My father was a V. C., ma'am," remarked Ronald in a soft tone.

"You're very proud of that, Ronald--you have good reason to be," said his friend. "But now, dear, I seriously want to ask you a few questions.

You have told me about Connie, and about some of your dreadful life with Mammy Warren. I am anxious that you should try to forget all these terrible things as much as possible."

"Oh! but, please, I never could forget dear Connie."

"I don't want you to forget her. I have been planning a delightful surprise for you with regard to her. But other things you can forget."

"There's another person I don't want to forget," said Ronald; "that is the good woman in the country who gave me delicious new-laid eggs and chops and chicken. Mrs. Cricket was her name. I used to think of _The Cricket on the Hearth_ often when I was looking at her. She was very like one, you know--such a cosy, purring sort of woman."

"How long were you with her, Ronald?"

"I don't remember going to her," said Ronald, shaking his head; "but perhaps I was too ill. But I do remember being with her, and the little path in the wood, and how I gradually got better, and how she petted me.