Faith returned the old Bible into its place.  She had found out what it could tell her.  Who was there who could give her the further knowledge for which she craved?  On one point, however, she had quite made up her mind.  With the aid of Jesus, or without, she must go herself to find her little brother.  This course of action seemed to her right, and clear as daylight.  It was all very well to talk of police and detectives searching for the child.  Faith did not know anything about such people.  Knowing nothing, she believed not at all in their power, but she did believe most fully in the power of her own great love. Surely no one else in all the world could distinguish Roy's little face so far away; no one else could detect the clear ring of his voice in the roar and din of London.  The little child had run away in fear and loneliness; but Faith, by the strength and power of her love, could bring him back again.  She did not think at all about her father.  She failed either to see or comprehend his new-born affection or anxiety. Her little heart felt hard against him; he had been cruel to her darling baby boy, and Faith could make no allowance for the torn prize essay. Her father was hard and cruel to every one.  Faith did not pity him; nor did she believe in the least in _his_ ability to bring the lost child home.  No, this must be her task.  She tied on her hat, and put on her out-door jacket, and ran down-stairs, for she had not a moment to lose. At the foot of the stairs she met the neighbour who had come into their room the evening before.  She stopped her for a moment.