CHAPTER XIX.

LITTLE VI.

"LEVESON!" and with a cry of joy Josie sprang to meet her brother. "Oh, how glad I am that you have come at last!"

"Why, Josie, my dear little Josie, I am sorry I said anything to you of my secret, if it has agitated you like this," said Leveson. "And I have nothing but disappointment for you."

"About Vi—then you know it wasn't her?"

"No, the story has come to nothing. I have seen the child, and inquired thoroughly into her history, and—"

"Oh, only think," exclaimed Josie, patience failing her—"only think, there came a little girl to the house this morning—not my little beggar girl, because she was ill, and sent this one in her stead—and oh, Leveson, mother saw her and she says it is Vi."

"Vi! Impossible!"

[Illustration: She paused a moment to look at the little figure standing there.]

"She says so. She goes on saying it over and over again. She saw the little girl in the passage, and she screamed and fell down as if she were dead. It was so dreadful. And the little girl must have been frightened away, for we found her gone. Mother gave such a shriek that I heard it up in my room—so loud!"

"Poor mother!" murmured Leveson. "She has been heart-broken about that child."

"And we don't know in the least where the little girl lives. Oh, how we have wanted you! Nurse doesn't know what to do, and I was sure that, if we sent, you would be out, so it would not bring you any sooner than you meant to come this evening. Mother has been ill all day—crying and laughing and talking so fast, and calling out, 'It's my Vi—my own little Vi!' She frightens me so. I am glad you have come!" Josie's clinging hands and catching sobs told of the shock she had herself received.

Leveson held her in his arms, kissing the flushed face. "What makes mother think it is Vi, Josie?"

"Oh, her face. Mother says it is just the same as when she was a baby,—not altered in the least."

"Ah, my mother always declared she should recognize her anywhere by her eyes."

"Blue, were they not?" said Josie.

"Yes, blue of a very peculiar tint and peculiar shape, and there was a curious deep dimple in each of her cheeks. It was not a face likely to change much."

"Wasn't she like mother?"

"As like as you are to our father. The very image of her. But come, you must take me in now. Is she down-stairs?"

"No, she is in her room, and nurse wanted her to go to bed, but she will only lie on the sofa. How glad she will be to see you!"

They went up-stairs, and Leveson's cheerful voice had a soothing sound, as he entered the room.

"How do you do, mother? Josie has told me your good news."

Josie drew back, frightened at the burst of weeping which followed his entrance; but Leveson held her hand, with an encouraging glance, and presently Mrs. Therlock raised her face, all tears and smiles.

"This is very weak, very ungrateful; but oh—to think that my child is found, and that I should have driven her from home again."

"Not driven far at all events," said Leveson. "Now suppose you tell me all that happened, and why you think it is Vi, so that I may know how to act."

"Think! I know it is Vi," sobbed Mrs. Therlock. "My own little darling. So shivering, and poorly clad, and half-starved; but I knew her—I knew her—I should know her anywhere."

"Know her by what?"

"Her face, her eyes, her mouth, her dimples,—the very manner—that quaint timid manner. She is the most perfect image of the old likeness taken of me when I was eight years old. And you know how like to me Vi was always considered. She has hardly changed in the least—only so thin and white, my poor little precious one. To think she should have been living near, and I to know nothing about it! But there is no possibility of a mistake. I know—I am certain it is her. Vi! Vi! How am I to get my child?"

"Mother, if you excite yourself so much, I shall not dare to talk to you on the subject," said Leveson. "I am afraid you will make yourself ill. Try to be quiet, while Josie tells me how it came about. Tell me all you know about the little girl, dear."

"Why, you know that starving child I saw once," said Josie. "And the day before yesterday—no, yesterday evening—afternoon I mean—"

"Tell me gently. Don't be in a hurry—" For Josie hardly seemed to know what she was saying.

"Yesterday I met her, just in the same place as before, and close to the same fountain. I have shown you the place, you know. Nurse was a little way behind, but I stopped and spoke to her, and she said she was starving again. She had been living with an old man up in a garret, she said, and she called him 'grandfather,' because he was so good to her. And I asked after her mother, but she never came back at all, after she was set free from jail.

"I had spent my shilling, and I had no money, so I told her to come to-day for some food. And this morning I was up in my room, when I heard the front door opened, and Harrison saying something about not wanting beggars. So I called out that the little girl wasn't to go away, but was to have the basket of food, which I had put out for her before breakfast, and was to wait in the hall till I came down, because nurse was mending my frock just then."

"And you thought it was the child you had seen before?"

"Yes, but Harrison says that she said she was not, but had been sent, because that little girl was ill from starving and couldn't come. And then just as I was going down-stairs, I heard mother call out, and nurse and I rushed down and found her fainting. And we were so frightened that no one remembered anything more about the little girl, until mother began to ask for her, and then we found that she was gone."

"Josie, don't call her 'the little girl!' She is Vi—your own little sister Vi," said Mrs. Therlock feverishly.

"Did she leave the basket?" asked Leveson.

"No, that was taken," said Josie. "I suppose she was so hungry that she didn't forget it in her fright. Do you think she really can be Vi?"

"It is," said Mrs. Therlock. "I cannot bear any doubts. I can't bear them, Leveson. Only find her for me."

"You cannot tell me anything more about her?" said Leveson. "A friend of the other child's, did you say, Josie?"

"I only know she was sent by her," said Josie. "That is all. But if you could find the other child, you could find her—Vi, I mean," she added, with a frightened glance at her mother.

"What is the other's name?"

"I don't know. I never thought of asking. It was so stupid, but nurse scolded, and that put it out of my head. Oh, Leveson, only think, if I had stopped that day we were going to Hampton Court, I might—"

"Hush, never mind now," said Leveson in a low voice, with a look which Josie understood. "Did you ask where she lived?"

"I think I said something about it, because she told me it was up in a garret of a house, not far from where she was then," said Josie.

"Come, that is not so bad. 'Not far' in London means a great deal. And she lives with an old man, you say?"

"Yes. I can't remember his name exactly, but it was Job something—Job Kips, or Job Kippers. Nurse says it was Job Klips, but I don't think there was any 'l' in it."

"That is quite a clue. There are not likely to be two men with such a singular name. I hope I shall hunt him out with no great difficulty. And we must remember too, that even if I could not easily discover him, it is pretty certain that you will see something more of the little granddaughter. If they are in want, they will probably apply again for assistance, though of course I have no intention of waiting for the chance."

"Yes, I have been hoping all day that the little girl—Vi, I mean—might come back, when she got over her fright; but she hasn't. And they have the food."

"But you will find them soon," said Mrs. Therlock. "Leveson, tell me you will."

"At least I can promise to do all in my power," said Leveson gently. "Trust,—only trust, mother, and all will turn out well. I believe we shall find our darling has been guarded all these years—that our prayers for her have been answered. She may have been in a rough school, but a rough school is sometimes the best in the end."

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