a good thing grandfather was out, for – and this was what mother was thinking of – poor grandfather, though he looked such a fine, tall, gray-haired old gentleman, was not really very strong or well. It was a great deal for him that they had all come abroad this winter, and the doctors had told mother and auntie that anything to startle or distress him might make him very ill indeed. Poor grandfather! I can't tell you what a kind, good man he was. He had stayed a great many years in India, though he would have liked dreadfully to come home, because it was "his duty" he said, and this had made him seem older than he really was, for a hot country is very wearing out to people who are not born to it. And, though he was so fond of his grandchildren, I think if he

had

a pet among them, it was little Herr Baby. The mere idea of his tiny Raymond – Baby was named Raymond after grandfather – being lost, even for an hour or two, would have troubled him dreadfully, and thinking of this, auntie, too, repeated after mother,

"Yes, indeed, what a good thing grandfather isn't in. We

mustn't

let him know, May, till Baby's found."

They didn't stay to say anything more. Off they all set into the garden, for, though Fritz said he had looked all over, they couldn't feel sure that they might not find Baby in some corner, hiding, perhaps, for fun, even. But when they had all been round and round the garden in every direction – mother, and auntie, and Celia, and Denny, and Fritz, and Mademoiselle Lucie, and Lisa, and Linley, and Peters, and François, and, even at the end I believe, Monsieur Jean-Georges himself, and the rest of the French servants – when they had all looked, and peeped, and shouted, and whistled, and begged, and prayed Baby to come out if he was hiding, and there was no answer, then they gave it up. It was impossible that the little man could be in the garden.

Where could he be?

Fortunately there was nowhere in the garden where he could have hurt himself – no pit or pond into which he could have fallen. And it was surely impossible that any one could have come into the garden and stolen him away, as Celia, with a pale face, whispered to auntie. Where could he be, and what should they do?

Time was passing – the friends who were coming to dinner would be at the villa before long; grandfather was

sure

to appear in a few minutes. What could they do?

"We must not tell grandfather, that is certain," said auntie. "May, dear, it is very hard on you, I know, but I'll tell you how it must be. You must stay here quietly and be ready for the friends who are coming, and I will go off at once and do all, everything I can think of. Mademoiselle Lucie, you know the town, and you can tell me all about the police, and where to go to

in case

we don't find our darling at once, though I quite think we shall. I can't take you, Peters," for Peters was eagerly coming forward, "Sir Raymond would miss you, nor you, Lisa, for you must take care of the other children," at which Lisa all but broke out crying; "It was too good of Mademoiselle Hélène to trust her; she didn't deserve it." "And François would be no good. You and I, Mademoiselle Lucie, will go at once. And you must tell grandfather that I was obliged to go out, for an hour or two, unexpectedly."

"I am afraid he will think it very strange," said mother, "but I will do my best."

Mother spoke quietly, but her face was very white.

"Do go, Nelly," she said, "as quick as you can."

And Celia and Denny, who had been thinking of bursting into tears, took example by her and auntie, and tried to look cheerful.

"Auntie," said Celia, running after her to the gate, "I'll be very good and try to comfort mother. And we'll not let grandfather think there's anything wrong. But oh, auntie dear, I

hope

you'll soon bring dear Baby safe home."

"So do I, darling," said auntie, stooping to kiss her, even though she was so hurried, and, for the first time, there was a little quiver in her voice, and Celia ran back to the others, thinking even more than before how good and brave auntie was.

They hastened down the road, auntie and little Mademoiselle Lucie, I mean. But when they had gone some little way, auntie stopped short.

"He may have gone by the other road, and we may miss him that way;" for, without thinking, auntie had hurried out by the little gate opening on to the lower road.

"I think not," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "at least the concierge would have been sure to see him, and we did ask her, and she had not seen him at all."

"To be sure," said auntie, "I forgot about the concierge."

"Besides," Mademoiselle Lucie continued, "to get to the town he must pass the way we are going, a little farther on where the two roads run together."

"To be sure," said auntie, again.

"It is to the town we are going?" asked Mademoiselle Lucie.

"Yes," said auntie, "I have an idea, but I did not like to say it to my sister for fear it should lead to nothing. There is a shop in the town where there is a picture that Baby took a great fancy to the other day. At least it was I that noticed it first, and he was so pleased with it. There was something else in the shop that he was looking at – I don't remember what – when we noticed the picture."

"Do you know where the shop is? Can we easily find it?"

"I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it," said auntie. "It is a shop of curiosities, a shop at a corner, the street is narrow."

"I know it," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "though it is not very well known. There are grander shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I know that shop, as I often pass it."

She told auntie the name of the owner of the shop, and of the street, and then auntie fixed, as they were now near the town, that she would go on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie went to her brother, who, she hoped, would be at home at this hour, and get him to go with her to the police office, so that no time should be lost.

Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she went so fast that the easy-going peasants driving their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked after her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave off looking about her on every side, to see if by any chance she could discover the well-known little figure it would have given her such joy to see. But no. Once or twice a child in the distance made her heart beat a little quicker, but, as soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her hopes sank again. There were very few houses on the country road leading from the villa till one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it not worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses and shops standing close together, and people constantly passing, it was much less likely that any one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby making his way.

"No," said auntie to herself, "it is no use stopping to ask. The best thing I can do is to find the shop at once, and if they can tell me nothing there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police office."

And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step she took farther without seeing anything of the little truant, made auntie's heart feel heavier – she hurried on again.

She soon found the wide street – the street with the dressmakers' and milliners' shops, which Fritz had not cared to look at – then she turned one corner and went on a little farther, then another, and – yes, there was the little old shop, looking just the same as the day they had all stood there so happily. Auntie had been walking very quickly, almost running, but when she saw the shop just before her she stood still – she felt

anxious – what should she do if she could hear nothing of Baby?

When she got to the door she stopped and looked in; there seemed to be no one in the shop. Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where the little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could that have anything to do with Baby? auntie asked herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby have thought of buying it? how much money had he? But it was stupid and foolish to stand there puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two hands, as the saying is, and went in.

No one there; where could the owner of the shop be? The last time he had come forward at once when they were only looking in – a little-dried up old man, just the sort of person one would expect to find in such a shop, sitting in a dark corner like an old spider, watching to see what flies were passing his way. Auntie went right in without seeing any one, but she heard voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went forward to a door slightly open, leading into rooms behind the shop. She knocked – but for a moment no one took any notice. They were talking so eagerly inside that she had to knock again, and in the moment or two that had passed without them hearing her, she heard one or two words that made her eager to hear more.

"No, no," some one was saying, "much better go at once to the office. We may get into trouble."

"He seems so sensible," said another voice. "

say, better go with him and carry the things, and we shall soon see if he knows his way, and – "

Auntie

could

not wait any more. She pushed open the door and went in. There was, however, no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost expected there would be. There was the old man that she remembered having seen before, looking like a very startled spider this time, as he raised his two shrivelled old arms in surprise at her appearance, and beside him was a very pleasant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in her arms, talking, or at least looking as if she had just been talking very eagerly.

"Is he here?" said auntie, quite breathless, "my little boy, my little nephew, I mean. Is Baby here?"

The young woman looked at the old man with a sort of little nod of triumph.

"You see," she said quickly, "I said there was no need to frighten the poor darling by taking him to the police office." "Yes, Madame," she went on, turning to auntie, "the dear bébé is here – that is to say, he cannot but be the one you are looking for. I sent him out into the little garden with his cat and my little girl, while my grandfather and I talked about what to do. I would have sent him home, I mean we would have tried to find his home, if my husband had been here, but he is away."

"And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to walk far," said the old man, who seemed now anxious to be very amiable.

"But you talked of taking him to the police office," said the young woman, in a low voice, "the idea! to frighten a bébé like that."

"Hush, hush," said the old man, "all was to be done for the best. You shall see him, your dear child, Madame," he went on, bustling about.

"But tell me first – a moment – " said auntie, "What did he come for? Did he buy the picture?"

"The picture," repeated the old man, "no, surely. It was the glass jugs, the little gentleman wanted, and he had his money all right – I took but the just price, Madame – I would not deceive any one."

"They are very dear to

mind," said the young woman, "but there – I know nothing about old things. This is not our shop, Madame – I look in in passing, to see the grandfather sometimes, that is all."

"And Baby came to buy some

jugs

, you say," repeated auntie. There was a confused remembrance in her mind of something Baby had said about jugs, something he had asked her to look at the day they had stood at the shop window, but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea in coming to the little old shop had been the picture. "You said he came to buy some jugs?" she said again.

"Yes, Madame," said the old man "two glass jugs – Venetian glass."

"Ah!" said auntie, and then she remembered it all – about the glass jugs that Baby had broken at home, and what he had said to her about those in the shop window being like them. "And the picture?" she said, "is it no longer there? But first, let me have my little boy. He is in the garden, you say?"

She looked round, for there was no sign of a garden. The window of the little room in which they were, looked out only on to a blank wall.

"This way, Madame," said the young woman, opening a door at the side. It led into a little dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was another door, standing open, and through this door came the sound of children's voices.

Auntie stood still a moment to listen – the first words made her smile.

"Him wants to go home now," said the well-known voice. "Little girl, why

won't

you listen? Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. Doesn't you hear?"

The little girl must have been very much puzzled, for auntie heard her trying her best, in her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger understand that they were to stay out in the garden till her mother called them in.

"Him wants to go

home

, and so does Minet," repeated poor Baby, and his voice began to quiver and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie could stand it no longer. She hurried out into the little garden.

"You shall go home now, Baby dear," she said. "Auntie has come to fetch you."

Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well-known voice. He ran to her and held up his little face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not at all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby's funny ways, that he almost never seemed surprised.

"Him is so glad you's come," he said. "You'll help him to carry home the shiny jugs, for Minet's

raver

tired, and him might have to carry her and the money-box. But you won't tell mother about the jugs, will you? You'll let him run in wif them him's self, won't you, auntie?

Won't

mother be pleased?"

"But you must tell me all about it, dear," said auntie; "did you come off all alone to get the glasses? Why didn't you ask some one to come with you?"

Baby looked a little troubled.

"Him didn't come

alone

," he said. "Him told Minet, and Minet comed too, only her's werry tired. And it were for the party, auntie," he added, looking up wistfully, "Lisa said mother had no pitty jugs for her's party. And oh, auntie, p'ease do be kick, 'fear we shall be too late."

Auntie took his hand and led him back into the shop, where the old man was wrapping up the jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie should see how careful he was.

"Has my little boy paid you?" she asked.

"Oh yes," said Herr Baby, understanding, though she did not speak English. "See in him's money-box;" he held out the money-box with some difficulty for, having Minet under the other arm, it was not easy for him to get his hands free; "him had two yellow pennies, one big and one little, him gived the big one for the shiny jugs."

"Was that the price of the jugs?" auntie asked the man.

"No, Madame, I have the change to give the little gentleman. See here," and he held out two large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie took.

"I don't think the jugs are dear," she said, with a smile, turning to the young woman, who looked pleased. "And some day," she went on, "we will come to see you, and bring you some little thing for your little girl, as you have been so kind to my little boy. Come now, Baby dear, we must get home as quick as we can."

"But the little girl, the pitty little girl," said Herr Baby, "him must say good-bye to

her

"There she is beside you," said auntie, thinking, of course, that he meant the young woman's little girl, "say good-bye to her."

"No, no," said Baby, "him doesn't mean her. Him means the pitcher little girl,

her

," he went on, pointing to the young woman, "her gottened her down for him to see, 'cos him were trying to reach up to kiss her."

That was why the picture was no longer in the window then? Where was it? Auntie turned round as she felt Baby pulling her.

"Her's there," he said, pointing to a chair on which the picture had been set down hurriedly with the face the other way. Auntie turned it round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again with the pretty half wistful, half wise expression, which had so taken her fancy. Now it seemed to her to be saying —

"I am so glad you have found him. I knew where he was. I am so glad to have helped you to find him;" and when Baby lifted his little face to kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of the child, who had once been living and loving like him, I can hardly tell you the strange feeling that went through auntie's heart.

"She must have been a dear good little girl, whoever she was," she thought to herself. "It would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind one in the world long after one is dead, such as that little face gives. I should like to have that picture. I must see about it."

But to-day there was no time to be wasted.

Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him to let her carry the precious jugs, as Minet and the money-box were already more than enough for him. And, even with her help, it was not so easy to manage at all, and auntie was very glad to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down the street, and get her to carry part.

Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can fancy, to see Herr Baby again. She had been coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; for very unluckily, as she thought, she had found that her brother was out, and she had not therefore gone to the police office.

"A very good thing, after all," said auntie; "it would only have been giving trouble for nothing, as we have found him."

But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low voice, to say nothing about the police before Herr Baby, as it might frighten him.

"Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to frighten him a little?" said Mademoiselle Lucie; "he would not run off again."

Auntie shook her head.

"Not in that way," she said. "We will make him understand how he has frightened

. That will be the best way."

"How did he mean to get home alone, I wonder," said Mademoiselle Lucie; "how could he have carried all he had, and Minet too?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said auntie. "How did you mean to carry everything home, Baby dear?"

Baby looked puzzled.

"Him doesn't know," he said. "P'r'aps him thought Minet would carry some," he added, with a smile.

Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked up for auntie to explain to her, for she did not understand Baby's talk any better than he did hers.

Suddenly another idea struck auntie.

"How did you manage to tell the old man in the shop what you wanted to buy?" she said.

Baby considered.

"Him sawed the pitty little girl," he said; "her was looking at the shiny glasses —

always

– her was keeping them for him. Him asked her to. Then him touched them; him climbed up on a chair in the shop and touched them, and then him showed all him's pennies to the old man; but the lady wif the baby knowed the best what him wanted. Her were very nice, but the pitty little girl were the goodest, weren't her?"

Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite gravely.

"It would be nice to have that pretty picture, wouldn't it, Baby?"

"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't look

quite

pleased. "Auntie," he said, "him doesn't like you to call her a

pitcher

. Him thinks her's a

zeal

little girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her tookened care of the shiny glasses so nice for him, didn't her?"

And auntie smiled again.

CHAPTER IX.

"EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST"

"But home is home wherever it is,

When we're all together and nothing amiss."

Irish Ballad

By this time, of course, it was quite dark. It had been quite light when auntie and Mademoiselle Lucie set off, but at Santino the darkness comes on very quickly. Poor Baby, he

would

have been in trouble if auntie had not come to look, for him – that is to say if the old man and the young woman had allowed him to set off on his journey home alone. I don't think he would ever have got there, for in the dark he could not have found his way, and he certainly could never have got the shiny jugs and Minet and the money-box all home in safety!

The ladies and gentlemen who were coming to dine at the Villa had all arrived. Mother was sitting in the drawing-room talking to them, and trying her best to look as if there was nothing the matter, to prevent grandfather finding out that there was. Poor mother, it was not very easy for her, was it? Grandfather was a good deal put out, as it was, at auntie's being so late. He, too, tried not to look cross, poor old gentleman, but any one who knew him at all well could not help seeing as he moved about the room, sometimes giving a poke to the wood fire which was burning quite brightly as it was, sometimes sharply pulling open one of the window-shutters and looking out, as if he could see anything with the light inside and the dark out of doors! – any one could see that he

was

very much put out. He sat down now and then for a minute or two and spoke very politely – for grandfather was a

very

polite old gentleman – to one or other of the stranger ladies, but even to them he could not help showing what was in his mind.

"It is very strange, really most exceedingly strange, of my eldest daughter," he said, "not to be in before this. I really feel quite ashamed of it, my dear Madam."

"But you are not uneasy, I hope," said the lady, kindly. "There cannot be anything the matter with Miss Leonard?" ("Miss Leonard" was what Fritz called auntie's "stuck-up name," and "Lady Aylmer" was mother's.) "You don't feel uneasy about her?"

(This lady did not know there

was

anything the matter, for she was quite at the other end of the room from mother. Mother had whispered to the lady beside her, who was an old and dear friend, how frightened she was about Herr Baby, and the old lady, who was very kind and nice, was talking and smiling as much as she could to help poor mother.)

"Uneasy," said grandfather, rather sharply, and not

quite

so politely as he generally spoke, "oh no, of course I'm not

uneasy

. My daughter Helen can take care of herself. I am only very much surprised at her doing such an extraordinary thing as forgetting the hour like this."

But in his heart I fancy what the lady said did make grandfather begin to think there might be something to be uneasy about, and this made him still crosser. She was not such a sensible lady as old Mrs. Bryan in the arm-chair opposite, who chattered the more the more she saw grandfather's worried look grow worse, and the pain grew plainer on poor mother's white face.

"May," he called out at last, "I think it is nonsense waiting dinner any longer. Tell one of the children to ring and order it up at once. Why, they're not here! Why are none of the children down, May? Everything seems at sixes and sevens."

"We are not waiting for Nelly, father dear," said mother. "I don't know why dinner isn't ready yet, but I think it can't be long. I will hurry them," and she got up to ring herself.

"But the children – why aren't they down?" said grandfather again.

Mother hesitated —

"It is rather late for them," she said. "The girls have been a long walk and are tired."

She did not know what to say, poor thing. She had not dared to let the three children come into the drawing-room, for fear their white faces and red eyes should make grandfather find out that there

was

something wrong, and indeed neither Celia, nor Denny, nor Fritz, would have been able to stay still in the room for five minutes. They were peeping out of the nursery every few seconds, running along to the end of the balcony, and straining their eyes and ears in trying to see or hear anything coming in the shape of good news.

Long, long afterwards they used to speak in the nursery, with deep breaths, of "that

terrible

evening when Herr Baby was lost."

But it was, of course, the worst for poor mother. It was bad enough in the nursery, where the tea, that nobody had cared to touch, was set out as neatly as usual on the table; the chairs drawn round, the one that Baby always had with a footstool on it – to make up for there being no high chair at the Villa – in its place, though the well-known, funny little figure was not perched on it. And Lisa, with a face swollen so that no one would have known her, fussing away to have the kettle boiling, so that her darling should have some hot tea as soon as ever he came in – for she wouldn't allow but that he would soon come in, though sad little stories kept running through Celia's and Denny's heads about children that had been lost and never found, or found only when it was no longer they themselves but only their poor little bodies, drowned, perhaps, or "choked in the snow," as Denny said. And she got rather cross when Celia reminded her that there was no snow, so it couldn't be

that

, any way.

All this was bad enough, but still they were free to talk about their fears, and to cry if they felt inclined, and to keep running to the window or the door. But for poor mother, as you can fancy, it was

much

worse. There she had to sit smiling and talking as if everything were quite nice and comfortable, not only for the sake of the friends who had come to dine with them, but still more for poor grandfather's sake, who kept growing more and more fidgety and put out, and at the bottom of his heart, though he would not own it even to himself, really frightened and anxious.

At last his patience was exhausted.

"May," he said, speaking across the fireplace to mother. She was talking to the lady beside her, and did not at first hear him. "

May

," said grandfather again, and if the children had been in the room I think his voice would have made them jump, "it is using our friends very badly to keep them waiting so long for dinner. Be so good as to ring again and tell the servants we will

not

wait any longer."

Poor mother – she looked up – it was all she could do not to burst into tears!

"Yes," she said, "I will tell them."

She was half rising from her seat, whispering to the lady beside her (the lady who

did

know all about it), "I don't know

how

I shall get through dinner," when – what was it? – no bell had rung, there was no sound that any one else heard, what could it have been that

mother

heard? I don't know what it was, and I daresay mother herself could not have told, but something she did hear. For she stopped short, and a sort of eager look came into her eyes and a flush into her cheeks. And then the other people in the room seemed to catch the infection, and everybody else looked up to see what was coming, and in the silence a sort of fumbling was heard at the door. It only lasted a second or two, then somehow the handle turned, much more quickly than was usually the case when it was Baby's small hands that were stretching up to reach it – I rather think some one must have been behind to help him – the door opened and – oh such a funny little figure came in! You know