"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 _us_. 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 gla.s.ses--_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 gla.s.ses 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."