Year: 1859

DcCOHle Oi Ills udrliug. Two uhNb dfteT sn'


had left the place, he was walking up ant


down before the house ia his usual manner


hemming and coughing. He had never


been so long at that exercise before. II,


concluded that Mrs. Darah was detainins


Anne, or was in the way somehow; or tina


Anne was mischievously prolonging The


pleasure of hearing her lovers signals, 70


membering that It was nearly the last time


that sLe should do so forever, so he hemmed


and coughed louder. But still no one an.


swered with a merry mocking hem and


cough. No bright eyes suddenly peered


above the blind; no round head gave him


a series of short, sharp mods, indicating


whether he should stay or depart.


'Well,' he said to himself, she ia now


more mine than her mistress; will knock


at the door, He did so, and was prepared


to see either Anne or Dame Darah herself;


but he started when the door was opened


by new servant. The truth flashed upon


him at once. Mrs. Darah had done with


his Anne, and would not keep her, even on


the ground upon which sho undertook to
stay for the coming week k-namcly food and
drink. but no pay.


Tho new maid could not inform him,
where his Anne had gone. She said that
she had never seen the old servant, for her


mistress gave her to understand that she
was not good for much, and invited young
men there, and that it was her-Mrs. Dar-
ah's-invariablc custom to see the old SER
want safely and clearly out of tho house be-
fore she admitted the now one, saving that
IF they only leid their heals together for
five minutes, they were sure to corrupt each
| othrr' William uttered strong aud an
Cry word or two; said he wished his Anne
hac left the day her time was out; bade
the maid good night, and departed. He
found the miserable man scottish and maun-
dering; he was incapable of being moved
by the news Of the daughters departure,
and as incapable of giving any clue to her
present whereabouts. William ran down
from the besotted creatures room, AMI
found himself under the dark sky, not know
ing whittier to turn for his Anne, He
went around to all the shops where he had
ever known Aune to call, At each place
they could orly tell him chat they had not
seer her for tho last three or four days, and
that another young woman uow came on
Mrs. Darah's errands. He exhausted all
the time allowed him in this fruitless search.
Whom he came to the place where he was
to meet the friends who had promised to
give him lift on the way home, he found
them gone he had arrived too late, and he
had to walk the ten miles alone, misera-
Bile man, giving himself up to fears, to be-
meanings, and once or twic, to anger, to
wonder, and even to suspicion.


Every evening, for week, William
walked twenty miles, from his work to the
town and back, seeking his sweetheart, reg
ularly visiting her father nd that same Sc
ries of tradesmcn on whom he bad called
the first night Of his loss But he received
no tiding, good or bad. Some times he felt
that even bad news would be better than
none, for the hope of any good explanation
of her marvellous disappearance often died
out for hours together. Still he rersevered
in his inquiry.


At last the Young men, In one Of the
shops he was wont TO call at, began to spec
ulate upon his case. When he entered,
they winked .and smiled, and whispered to
one another. They said they could very
accurately perceive what was too great a
BOBBY to believe it. One or two Of them
asked if it would not be true kindness to
suggest this explanation to him.


They agreed that it would; and they did |
so. He answered with such scorn and pas
SION, with such violent assertion of his
Anne's faithfulnesS, with such fire and
flash in his eyes, and with such threats
against any one who should vilify her un-
justly, that the suggcstors wished they had
let the subject alone.


At the end of the week, on the day
which was TO have been their wedding day. |
while Anne lay tossing over restlessly, and
talking wild nonsense, he came into the
town to settle in his own house and shep.
As night after night he returned alone to
the house he bad bought and furnished for |
another, still without news of her, he took
forth from his memory the suggestion of
the young shopmen; he laid it out, so to
speak, before him; he turned it over and
over; he looked at it in every light, on
every side; he began to admit its possibil-
ity; and at last, in a morbid mood, he half |
lIcNcu


His shop was still unfinished, and he
spent his time mainly in travelling hither
and thither, seeking stock for it. But he
went about all business poorly, with heavy
and half broken heart. 1t seemed a mock |
cry to him to be making such preparations.
He did not believe he should live TO use
them. He did not want to do so. For
the mystery of Anne's departure, her terri.
bic silence, and this gradual, but surely ex-
cusable, admission into his heart of suspic
ion Of her faith and love towards him,
plucked all the zcst and purpose out of his
life. 1t was for her sake ho had worked
submissively as foreman so MANY years;
for her sake he had stintod himself in dress
amusement, inJulgences of all kinds, and
found delight in such sacrifices. Every cut
of a saw, every blow Of hammer or mallet,
every coat of paint, every boot and shoe, in
his shop, held in his own mind some rela-
tion to her colnfIrt and prosperity, as a part
of that household Of which she was about
to be the daily sunshine; the source and
centre Of all its light and warmth and pleas
antness; the easure of its work and rest.