“Oh no, no!” cried Jessie, beside herself with dismay; “don’t take me away!—­please, please don’t make me leave granny!”

“Shut up that noise,” interrupted her father roughly.  “You’ve got to learn that I never stand whining and bellowing; and the sooner you learn it the better.  Now I did mean to spare you all the trouble of saying ‘good-bye,’ but on second thoughts I’ll go in and explain a bit to the old woman, so hurry along and lead the way.  I don’t want any nonsense about putting the police on my track to find you and bring you back, so it shall be all open and straight.  You are mine by law, and I am going to stick to the law.”

Jessie was trembling so, she could scarcely drag her limbs along, but she did her best to obey her father’s command, a wild hope springing up in her heart that if once she got within the shelter of home and granny, all would be well.

As she opened the cottage door she heard her grandmother’s voice calling down to her.  “Why, Jessie, wherever have you been?  I was afraid something had happened.  The kettle has boiled over and over until the fire must be nearly put out.”  But she had scarcely finished speaking before Jessie dashed up the stairs and into her room breathless, almost speechless, her face white, and with a look on it that haunted Patience Dawson for many a long day.

“Oh, granny, he’s come, father’s come, and he’s going to take me away!  Oh, granny, what shall I do!  Save me! save me! don’t let him have me!  I’m afraid of him!”

But before Mrs. Dawson, in her utter bewilderment and fright, could take in what it all meant, heavy footsteps mounted the stairs quickly, and she saw Harry Lang, the man she so detested and dreaded, standing in the doorway.

“Don’t make that row,” he shouted roughly to the child, “nice way that to carry on when your dear grandmother is ill!  Do you want to make her worse!  Be quiet, can’t you, and be quick.  I’ve got no time to waste.”

Jessie subsided into silence, a little moan alone escaping her as she clung to her grandmother.

“It’s simple enough,” he went on, turning to Mrs. Dawson, “I want my daughter, and I’ve come to fetch her.  You’ve had her for five years, and now I want her for five—­or fifteen, or fifty,” he added, “just as it suits me.”

“You can’t—­you’ve no right—­you deserted her.  She is ours.”

“That’s just where you make a mistake, old lady,” he sneered, his face lighting up with an ugly mocking smile.  “She is mine, not yours, and I’ve every right to her.  I didn’t desert her, and you can’t prove I did, and I guess if we went to law about it, it would be you that would be in the dock for stealing her, or receiving stolen goods, so to speak, from her mother, who stole her.”

“You knew where she was!” gasped Mrs. Dawson, stunned by this new aspect of affairs.  “You knew poor Lizzie had sent her here—­you know you did.”