"Might you 'appen to have the feller one to this?" he asked.

"Surely," answered the woman. "Once they was mine, an' now I'm keeping 'em against my little gal's old enough to wear 'em."

She held out the other red boot.

"Is there--is there," asked Andrew hesitating, "two big 'M's' wrote just inside the linin'?"

"Right you are," answered the woman; "an' it stands fur--"

"It stands fur 'Molly Martin,'" said Andrew, sitting suddenly down on the edge of the bed with d.i.c.kie in his arms. "Oh, be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands! I set every st.i.tch in them little boots myself', an' you're the little gal I lost twenty years ago!"

It really did turn out to be Andrew's little girl, grown into a young woman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village was stirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for the moment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again to eager audiences as he had to d.i.c.kie, only now it had a better ending.

The children at the vicarage found it wonderfully interesting--more so than one of Pennie's very best, and the nice part about it was that it had been d.i.c.kie who discovered Andrew's little girl. Indeed, instead of being scolded for disobedience as she deserved, d.i.c.kie was made into a sort of heroine; when she was brought home sound asleep in Andrew's arms, everyone was only anxious to hug and kiss her, because they were so glad to get her back again, and the next day it was much the same thing. The children were breathless with admiration when the history of the red boot was told, and d.i.c.kie's daring adventure, and Mrs Hawthorn was scarcely able to get in a word of reproof.

"But you know," she said, "that though we're all glad Andrew's daughter is found, still it was naughty and wilful of d.i.c.kie to go out by herself. She knew she was doing wrong, and disobeying mother."

"But if she hadn't," remarked David, "most likely Andrew never would have found his little girl."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it might not have ended so well.

d.i.c.kie might have been hurt or lost. Good things sometimes come out of wrong things, but that does not make the wrong things right."

Still the children could not help feeling glad that d.i.c.kie had been disobedient--just that once.

And then another wonderful thing to think of, was that Andrew was now really related to the clown, whose appearance and manners they had all admired so much the day before. That delightful, witty person, whose ready answers and pointed pleasantries made everyone else seem dull and stupid! He was now Andrew's son-in-law. It appeared, however, that Andrew was not so grateful for this advantage as he might have been.

"Aren't you glad, Andrew," asked Nancy, "that Molly married the clown?"

"Why, no, missie," he answered, sc.r.a.ping his boot on the side of his spade, "I can't say as I be."

"Why not? He must be _such_ a nice man, and _so_ amusing."

"Well," said Andrew, "it's a matter of opinion, that is; it's not a purfesson as _I_ should choose, making a fool of myself for other fools to laugh at. Not but what he do seem a sober, decent sort of chap, and fond of Molly; so it might a been worse, I'll not deny that."

A sober, decent sort of chap! What a way to refer to a brilliantly gifted person like the clown!

"An' they've promised me one thing," continued he as he shouldered his spade, "an' that is that they'll not bring up the little un to the same trade. She's to come an' live a-longer me when she's five years old, an' have some schoolin' an' be brought up decent. I don't want my gran-darter to go racin' round on 'orses an' suchlike."

"Then you'll have a little girl to live with you, just as you used to,"

said Pennie.

"And her name will be Mollie too," said Ambrose.

"But you won't take her to the circus again, I should think?" added David.

"Andoo's 'ittle gal had yed boots," said d.i.c.kie, and here the conversation finished.

THE END.