But she did not return at the
usual hour. My uncle went to inquire about her. She had left the school
with the rest. Night drew on. My uncle was in despair. He roamed the
streets all night; spoke about his child to every policeman he met;
went to the station-house of the district, and described her; had bills
printed, and offered a hundred pounds reward for her restoration.
All was unavailing. The miscreants must have seen bills, but feared to
repose confidence in the offer. Poor Uncle Peter drooped and grew thin.
Before the month was out, his clothes were hanging about him like a
sack. He could hardly swallow a mouthful; hardly even sit down to a
meal. I believe he loved his Little Christmas every whit as much as
if she had been his own daughter--perhaps more--for he could not help
thinking of what she might have been if he had not rescued her; and he
felt that God had given her to him as certainly as if she had been his
own child, only that she had come in another way. He would get out of
bed in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, and go wandering up and
down the streets, and into dreadful places, sometimes, to try to find
her. But fasting and watching could not go on long without bringing
friends with them. Uncle Peter was seized with a fever, which grew and
grew till his life was despaired of. He was very delirious at times,
and then the strangest fancies had possession of his brain.
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