Suppose Connie
ever found out his meanness, his wickedness.
Harris was very fond of Connie just then. He had suffered during her
absence. His home was pleasant to him--as pleasant as his guilty
conscience would permit during those days, for little Giles was like no
one else. Oh, could the awful moment ever come when Giles would look at
him with reproachful eyes--when Giles would turn away from him? The
miserable man felt that were such a time to arrive it would be almost as
bad as the knowledge that God Himself could not forgive him. He was
distracted, miserable; he must find a refuge from his guilty thoughts.
A public-house stood handy. He had not really taken too much for a long
time now--not since that terrible night when, owing to drink, he had
turned his child from his door. But he would forget his misery now in
drink.
"That dreadful boy!" he muttered--"that dreadful, dreadful boy, with
hair like a flame, and eyes that peered into you like gimlets!"
Harris passed through the great swing-doors. His good angel must almost
have disappeared at that moment.
Meanwhile Connie and Giles watched and waited in vain for Sue. She was
coming to-day--she was coming to-morrow. But the weary hours went by and
no Sue arrived; there was no message from her. Harris went oftener and
oftener to the public-house, and brought less and less of his wages
home, and Giles faded and faded, and Connie also looked very sad and
weary.
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