THE WINGS ARE GROWING.

Connie went back to Giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading.

He was going through the _Pilgrim's Progress_ to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time.

"Connie, wot were that as I read last?"

Connie colored.

"You weren't listening," said Giles reproachfully. "It wor a most beautiful bit. But you didn't hear me, Connie."

"I wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned Connie. "I'll listen now wid hall my might, dear Giles."

"Ah! but I'm tired now," said Giles; "and besides, I want to talk 'bout something else, Connie."

"Well."

"Sue have been a whole month in the country to-day--rayther more than a month. I don't understand it at all. I never thought as she could stay so long away from me. I suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. It has been a long time--wery, wery long--but have I been patient 'bout Sue all this long time, Connie?"

"Yes, indeed, dear Giles."

"Oh! I'm glad, fur I've tried to be. Then, Connie, wot I'm thinking is that ef Sue don't soon come back--ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage--why, I won't want it, Connie. Sue 'ull come back and find me--gone."

"Gone!" echoed Connie. "Do you mean dead? Oh Giles! you're not ill enough to die."

"Yes, Connie, I think I am. I'm so real desperate weak sometimes that I don't like even to move a finger. I used to be hungry, too, but now I never cares to eat. Besides, Connie dear----"

"Yes, Giles," answered Connie.

"Those wings that I told you of--why, I often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. I told you before, Connie, that when they was full grown, why, I'd fly away. I think they are growing wery fast. I'll want no cottage in the country now. I'm going away to a much better place, ain't I, Connie?"

"Oh! but, Giles, I don't want to think that--I don't want to," answered Connie, the tears raining down her cheeks.

"'Tis real good fur me, though, Connie. I used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull--scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. Now, in heaven there's no winter. 'A land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' So you see, Connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course I'd rayther go there; only I'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout Sue."

"Yes, I wish as Sue was home," said Connie.

"Connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? I'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone."

"I'll look fur her; I will find her," said Connie with sudden energy.

Then she rose and drew down the blinds.

"I'll find Sue ef I can, Giles; and now you will go to sleep."

"Will you sing to me? When you sing, and I drop off to sleep listening, I allers dream arterwards of heaven."

"What shall I sing?"

"'There is a land of pure delight.'"

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

A CRISIS.

Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it.

Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy--she would find Sue.

As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors pa.s.sed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon "goin' aw'y."

"It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found."

Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped when he saw Connie.

"I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?"

"Worse--much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes.

"No news of his sister, I suppose?"

"No, sir--none."

"I am sorry for that--they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him."

The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said:

"I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see Sue once more."

"I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef--ef I never see Giles agin."

"But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this great London without some clue."

"I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles."

"Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor.

"'E knows--I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and then----"

"Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with him?"

"I won't leave him alone," said Connie.

The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together.