"
"That's wot I think," said Harris. "Make a short job of it, man. Call in
a constable; 'e can take me to Bow Street to-night."
"No 'urry, man," said the pawnbroker. "I want yer to tell me some'ut
more. Is that other little party alive or dead? It seems to me as though
the 'arth must 'ave swallered her up."
"I will tell you," said Connie; and she did relate Sue's story--as much
as she knew of it--and with such pathos that even that pawnbroker, one
of the hardest of men, felt a queer softness about his heart.
"Wull," he said--"wull, it's a queer world! To think o' that child
plannin' things out like that! And ef she ad come to me, I might ha'
believed her, too. Wull now, she be a fine little crittur. An'
s'pose"--he glanced at Harris--"I don't prosecute you, there's no call,
to my way o' thinkin'. And the fact is, I'm too busy to be long out of
the shop. Don't you steal no more, neighbor. You ha' got off dirt-cheap
this time, but don't you steal no more."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE HAPPY GATHERING.
There came a day in the early spring of that year when a great many
pleasant things happened to the people who have been mentioned in this
story.
Connie's room was very bright with flowers--spring flowers--which had
been sent to her all the way from Eastborough by Mrs. Cricket.
Quantities of primroses were placed in a huge bowl, and the sun came
feebly in at the window and seemed to kiss and bless the flowers.
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