CHAPTER XVII.

LEVESON'S SECRET.

THEY stood looking each at the other,—the little daintily-dressed girl, in her warm winter clothing, with furs, and muff, and sheltering jacket; and the poor child, with wasted frame, and hollow eyes, and threadbare rags, through which every gust of wind swept piercingly.

"Now, Miss Josie!"

"Yes, I know, nurse," said Josie, turning in self-defence at the sound of reproof. "But this is the same little girl I saw once before, and you know what mother said."

"Don't believe it is the same," said nurse shortly.

"O yes, it is, because I know her face. She has been living with her grandfather ever since,—at least she says so,—and he isn't her real grandfather, but he gave her a home when she was starving. Wasn't that it, little girl?"

Ailie nodded. "An' gran'father grows weaker an' weaker, an' there ain't a morsel to give him," she said passionately. "An' it's all along of my livin' with him, that he's come to this."

"It is very dreadful," said Josie. "I wish I had my shilling back. Nurse, couldn't you lend me a penny? I'll pay you back when I have my allowance."

"'Tisn't any way to encourage beggars," said nurse decidedly. "I wash my hands of the whole concern, Miss Josie. If you go and catch a mortal fever, and get the house broken into and burned down, and all of us shot and smothered alive, like them Fenians do in Ireland, 'tain't my fault."

"I am sure this little girl wouldn't burn anybody," said Josie. "I haven't anything to give you now, little girl, but you must come to our house this evening,—no, not this evening, because I am going out with mother to tea,—but you must come to-morrow morning. Now mind."

"Thank ye, Miss," said Ailie.

"You don't know where we live though," said Josie, and with some difficulty she made the matter clear to Ailie. "Now mind you don't forget. Number Sixteen, and you are to ask for Miss Therlock." Josie looked dignified as she spoke. "If we find out that you have told me the exact truth, we will give you help."

"An' grandfather?" whispered Ailie.

"Yes, and your old grandfather too, of course. But mother likes to help little girls best, because—"

Josie paused, and looked grave, before continuing, "Yes, I know she will help you. It always makes her so unhappy to see any little girl hungry. That is the only reason I don't like you to come to the house. But you must come, and we'll give you something to eat before she sees you, and then you won't look so pinched. I wish I had a penny here, but I haven't."

"Nor I neither, so it's no good looking at me," said nurse. "Shows how much you think of your mamma's feelings, Miss Josie,—taking to her a child like that. When you know it'll make her think of Miss Vi, and she'll cry."

"I do think of her feelings," said Josie indignantly. "But I can't leave the little girl to starve. That isn't what mother would like. Mind you come, little girl, for I shall tell my mother all about you, and it would make her very unhappy, if you didn't. So mind you come."

And with a little parting nod, she marched off, followed by nurse. Suddenly remembering that Leveson had promised to look in on them that afternoon, she quickened her steps. All the way home her mind was full of the hungry child; but on reaching the house, that subject was banished by the sight of Leveson in the passage.

"Oh, how nice! I was so afraid you wouldn't come," and she flung herself into his arms.

"I was afraid too that I could not manage it, but having told you to expect me, I thought I must spare a couple of hours."

"Is mother in?" asked Josie, clinging to him, and leading him into the dining-room. "She meant to be back early from her walk."

"No, I hear she was delayed in going out by a visitor, so she has not returned yet. You and I must be content with each other's company for a while."

"And now tell me all sorts of things, and ask me a hundred questions," said Josie, establishing herself on the sofa arm, with her hand on his shoulder. "Do!"

But Leveson was provokingly absent. He smiled and talked, but his questions were few, and his answers wide of the mark.

"What are you thinking about?" she said at length.

"Not of what you were saying, I am afraid," said Leveson, rousing himself. "I beg your pardon, Josie."

"But what is it?" asked Josie.

"Never mind now. I am afraid your tongue runs a little too fast, my small woman, for you to be trusted with secrets."

"Now, Leveson—when I kept that secret about mother's birthday present for a whole six weeks!"

"Ah, that was a different thing. And hints and conscious looks will not do here."

"I am sure I shall look conscious now," said Josie. "And mother will ask me why, and I shall tell her I don't know, so she had better ask you."

"Not if I ask you to tell her no such thing!"

"Oh, but do tell me your secret, Leveson. Indeed you may trust me. Oh, do."

Leveson shook his head, and looked out of the window.

"What is it about?" asked Josie. "Nothing bad, I suppose. No, I can see that in your face. Is it very good?"

"Almost too good to be true—if true," muttered Leveson. "I hardly dare to hope, and yet—it seems more than probable—"

"Leveson! It's about Vi," exclaimed Josie, starting up with a shriek.

"Hush, hush, Josie. I am very unwise to say so much."

"Oh, won't you—oh, do tell me," implored Josie. "Have you heard the least little bit of anything about Vi?"

"It is just possible; I can say no more than that. A friend of mine has come across a child who might be—may be—but it is all uncertain. To-morrow I shall search out all particulars, and go to see her."

"And won't you tell mother?"

"On no account. The uncertainty, and the possible disappointment after all, would half kill her. Josie, for her sake, you must allow no sign of this to escape you in her presence,—not even an allusion to what you have heard."

"No, I won't—I won't," promised Josie. "But how soon shall we know?"

"You may depend upon me to look in to-morrow evening, whether I have anything certain or not to tell you."

"Is it near here that the little girl lives? Fancy, if she is Vi!" cried Josie.

"No, far away, quite in another part of London. She lives with an old charwoman."

"Vi herself! Think of that! Won't it be a change for her to come home? Don't you think it must be Vi?"

"I can't say. It may be, but that is all, though I certainly have hopes."

"Do you think she will remember us?" asked Josie.

"Hardly possible. A little creature only two and a half years old,—but her face was not one likely to change much, and she was the very image of your mother. Do you recollect her?"

"Not much. You see I was so small—only four or five; but I remember us two playing with our dolls, together. And then the day she was lost—I haven't forgotten that. Nurse had dressed her out in that lovely worked frock, which her godmamma gave her. I know that, because nurse told me I didn't look one quarter so nice in mine, and that made me angry with Vi. We were going to tea somewhere, weren't we?—And on the way, I remember a great crowd of people, and I was frightened, and clung to nurse ever so tight, and then nurse missed Vi. And I remember how wild she was, when she hunted and couldn't find her, and no one seemed to have noticed her. And then mother's crying—oh, how dreadfully she used to cry—and nurse's illness and going away, and the new nurse coming, and mother's saying she could never leave London again till Vi was found, and how I used to long for the green fields again. I remember all quite well. Oh, if you really have found her—only think!—won't it be great, great happiness?"

"We shall never be able to thank God enough, if it is so," said Leveson. "But I hardly venture yet to hope, after all this vain searching for years."

"And then we should go into the country, shouldn't we?" said Josie. "I wish I knew. I wish you had seen the little girl."

"Only a few hours to wait, I trust. It was not till I was in the act of starting to come here, that my friend told me about her, and he could not go with me to-night, but to-morrow—early—"

"O Leveson!"

"Hush, that is my mother's step."

And hard as they both found it, they talked naturally and quietly, so that she saw nothing unusual in their faces or voices—nothing to make her suspect what was going on.

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