“Who’s Mr. Hucks?”

“He’s the man that farms the Plain here—­farms it out, I mean,” Mrs. Damper explained.  “He leases the ground from the Corporation and lets it out for what he can make, and that’s a pretty penny.  Terrible close-fisted man is Mr. Hucks.”

“Oh!” said Tilda, enlightened.  “When you talked of farmin’, you made me wonder . . .So they’re all gone?  And Wolverhampton-way, I reckon.  That was to be the next move.”

“I’ve often seen myself travellin’ in a caravan,” said Mrs. Damper dreamily.  “Here to-day an’ gone to-morrow, and only to stretch out your hand whether ’tis hairpins or a fryin’-pan; though I should never get over travellin’ on Sundays.”  Here, while her eyes rested on the child, of a sudden she came out of her reverie with a sharp exclamation.  “Lord’s sake!  You ain’t goin’ to tell me they’ve left you in ’ospital, stranded!”

“That’s about it,” said Tilda bravely, albeit with a wry little twist of her mouth.

“But what’ll you do?”

“Oh, I dunno . . .  We’ll get along some’ow—­eh, ’Dolph?  Fact is, I got a job to do, an’ no time to lose worryin’.  You just read that.”

Tilda produced and handed her scrap of paper to Mrs. Damper, who took it, unfolded it, and perused the writing slowly.

“Goin’ there?” she inquired at length.

“That depends.”  Tilda was not to be taken off her guard.  “I want you to read what it says.”

“Yes, to be sure—­I forgot what you said about havin’ no schoolin’.  Well, it says:  ’Arthur Miles, surname Chandon, b.  Kingsand, May 1st, 1888.  Rev. Dr. Purdie J. Glasson, Holy Innocents’ Orphanage, Bursfield, near Birmingham ’—­leastways, I can’t read the last line clear, the paper bein’ frayed; but it’s bound to be what I’ve said.”

“Why?”

“Why, because that’s the address.  Holy Innocents, down by the canal—­ I know it, o’ course, and Dr. Glasson.  Damper supplied ’em with milk for over six months, an’ trouble enough we had to get our money.”

“How far is it?”

“Matter of half a mile, I should say—­close by the canal.  You cross it there by the iron bridge.  The tram’ll take you down for a penny, only you must mind and get out this side of the bridge, because once you’re on the other side it’s tuppence.  Haven’t got a penny?  Well,”—­Mrs. Damper dived a hand into her till—­“I’ll give you one.  Bein’ a mother, I can’t bear to see children in trouble.”

“Thank you,” said Tilda.  “It’ll come in ’andy; but I ain’t in no trouble just yet.”

“I ’spose,” Mrs. Damper ventured after a pause, “you don’t feel like tellin’ me what your business might be down at the orphanage?  Not that I’m curious.

“I can’t.”  This was perfectly true, for she herself did not know.  “You see,” she added with a fine air of mystery, “there’s others mixed up in this.”

Mrs. Damper sighed.