We said, "Oh, dear, she has gone to Browndown again!"-- and immersed ourselves once more in the shabby recesses of Mrs.Finch's wardrobe.
I had just decided that the blue merino jacket was an article of wearing apparel which had done its duty, and earned its right to final retirement from the scene--when a plaintive cry reached my ear, through the open door which led into the back garden.
I stopped, and looked at Mrs.Finch.
The cry was repeated, louder and nearer: recognizable this time as a cry in a child's voice.

The door of the room had been left ajar, when we sent the messenger back to the nursery.

I threw it open, and found myself face to face with Jicks in the passage.
I felt every nerve in my body shudder at the sight of the child.
The poor little thing was white and wild with terror.

She was incapable of uttering a word.

When I knelt down to fondle and soothe her, she caught convulsively at my hand, and attempted to raise me.