she might choose, or necessity might require. But entire confusion was brought on by a small act of carelessness on her part when leaving Easton on the Monday evening. More absent-minded than usual, she had forgotten her parasol, and as on the Friday, Mrs. Walton's servant was sent into Westhaven on various commissions, and to give assurance of the safety of the closed house in Hanover Square, she was directed by her mistress to leave, for Miss Laureston, the forgotten article.

Jane had left Easton by the earliest train, so that soon after half-past nine she reached Portsmouth Square. Miss Ingram was in the passage proceeding towards the school room, when she heard at the door the familiar voice of Mrs. Walton's servant, speaking low, and her own domestic saying, "You had better come in and tell mistress." She returned to the parlour with a feeling of apprehension. "I hope there is nothing the matter with your mistress," she inquired, anxiously, when Jane came in.

“No, ma'am, thank you." Jane hesitated; she was not one of those who like to bring evil tidings. "But, ma'am, Miss Laureston is not with us."

"Not with you!" exclaimed Miss Ing ram, turning very pale. "Where is she? What has happened? Since when?"

"She left on Monday evening by the 6.50 train."

"Monday, and this is Friday! Oh, where, where can she be? What can have happened? Why did you not let me know before? How came she to leave on Monday; she was going to stay till to-morrow?"

"No, ma'am; she wrote to mistress that she could only stay the one day."

"Then it was a plan! I knew something would happen sometime; but oh, nothing so dreadful as this. Oh, where can she be? What shall I do?" So many fearful possibilities crowded on her mind she seemed unable to think or act.

"Do you think," suggested Jane, "she is gone to Mrs. Weatherill?"

"Surely, surely, Mrs. Weatherill would have written; but oh, I hope, I hope she is! I must telegraph to her without delay."

"Is there anything I can do? Anywhere I can go?" asked Jane. "I am sure my mistress would wish it.

"The only person she knows, as far as I am aware-except my relatives-is a Mrs. White, in Advent Street, where her mother lodged. I shall go at once to my uncle, Mr. Rivers, for advice. Will you go and make inquiries of Mrs. White; but say as little as you can. It will be the ruin of the child's reputation, if no worse! We must keep it as quiet as possible." She rang the bell and her servant appeared.

"Stone," she said, trying to speak in her usual voice, "I must desire that you mention this matter to no one. Probably Miss Laureston is with a lady in Kingsport; a letter may have missed."

"I, ma'am ! Oh, no, ma'am," said Stone. But she had already told the news to one of the young ladies she met on the stairs, also to the butcher's boy. In the schoolroom, Miss Ackland was vainly endeavouring to repress whispers which were passing from girl to girl, and from class to class, until one of the first division boldly spoke out the startling intelligence; and, on the opposite side of the square the boy, pointing with his whip in the direction of Miss Ingram's establishment, was informing a cook, standing open-eyed on the area-steps, that " one of them there girls had runned away."

"Young ladies," Miss Ingram said, entering the schoolroom without, in her own preoccupation, noticing the curiosity on the faces around her, and endeavouring to speak with her accustomed formal composure, Unforeseen business will compel me to be absent this morning. I rely upon you to show equal application to your studies, and the same propriety of a general behaviour, as if I were present." Here Miss Ackland spoke to her in a whisper. The governess looked surprised and pained, paused, then resumed, "I am informed, young ladies, that you are acquainted with the fact that Miss Laureston is not at Easton-on-Sea, and that her movements since leaving us are somewhat uncertain. I hope, I almost believe, she is in good keeping with the lady who is her righful guardian. To have acted thus without my knowledge and permission is, of course, an unpardonable breach of discipline, which must be visited with the severest displeasure and punishment. My first duty, however, is to ascertain her present security. Has Miss Laureston said anything to any of you, at any time, which may throw light upon this strange and disgraceful procedure?"

Two or three hands were eagerly raised in response; but Irene had kept her own counsel, and that she had said she was very unhappy, that she would be a painter, whoever opposed, was all that these ready witnesses were able to communicate.

Then Miss Ingram passed to her room, and, with trembling hands hurriedly prepared for going out. "Oh, if mother were only here," she thought, "I needed her most; so many anxieties and perplexities. I do need some one to speak to." But it by no means occurred to her, though probably it was the case, that if Mrs. Ingram, with her more sympathetic nature, had been there, gently persuading to less sternly repressive measures, this trouble might never have arisen.

"I trust uncle will not counsel advertising in the newspapers and by handbills. It would be such a disgrace to her; such a

disparagement and injury to the school," she thought, as she hurried along the quiet ways towards a cabstand. "John must ask leave of absence from the office. He has good sense, and can be wholly trusted. How shocked he will be! He thinks much too well of her, But, oh! where, where can she be? Oh! I hope, I pray, she may be at Kingsport." And she called a cab, and directed to be driven to the nearest telegraph office.

Mrs. Weatherill had gone early that morning into the town on various small commissions, and as the day was lovely, and all little matters had proceeded satisfactorily, she was returning home in cheerful spirits. She had ascended the front steps, but had not knocked, when a telegraph-boy stepped up. "A telegram for Mrs. Weatherill," he said, and she put out her hand. Telegraphic communication was not then in such frequent use as now on trivial occasions, and it was with a presentiment of evil that, standing where she was, she tore open the envelope.

"Miss L. missing. Is she with you ?" Over and over again Clarissa read the words with a blank stare, as if their very directness confused her, and she could not take in the meaning. Irene missing; missing? Where? Where? How? Irene-her child-missing. Beautiful Irene whom she had promised to take care of-missing! lost! She must go and find her. She must go to Westhaven directly. When did the next train leave? Edward could tell her. She must go and tell Edward; he was wise, he could tell her what to do. Tell him! Tell him what? How much? Oh, if he only, only knew all! But he did not. What had she better do, what had she better say? She felt that she was deadly pale, that she was trembling. Susan, when she came to the door, would ask what was the matter; Alice would soon be home, her husband before very long. She must have just a minate to think. And she went down the steps and up the small space of hill which divided their house from the church, then through the gates into the quiet of the churchyard.

Since the proposal of Edward's that Irene should spend the Christmas holiday at Kingsport, she had been seldom mentioned between the husband and wife. The uneasiness Clarissa felt because of the concealment she was practising and the prevarication into which she had fallen, together with the fear that if remarks and inquiries respecting her orphan charge were made, she might be led into some further departure from truth, made her anxious to avoid such conversation. She had suggested to Irene, making some excuse as to greater leisure, that she should so post her letters that they might reach her in the afternoon, when she was generally alone, and not by the first post, to be received and read at the breakfast table, and for the most part these letters were

answered in the quiet hours, after her child had gone to bed, and before her husband had returned from public meeting or committee. And so it was that by Edward and by his sisters the existence of his wife's protégée, if not absolutely forgotten, was rarely remembered or adverted to. Alice only not unfrequently spoke of her, but always, though she could have given no reason for so doing, when she and her mamma were alone together.

With hurried steps Clarissa traversed the long, wide, gravel-path in anxious indecision, yet every step seeraing wrong which did not lead her to the railway station; every minute spent otherwise than in getting to Westhaven, time cruelly wasted. When did the trains leave? She tried to quiet herself a little, that she might be able to recollect. There was one, she thought, about two, and one at 12.30. She could catch that, and she turned and walked hastily towards the gate, but not and see Edward! She must see him, she could not go without, so she must wait for the two o'clock. Her speed slackened, and when she reached the gate she turned again. What should she say? Should she tell him everything? It There

would be such a comfort to have this secret off her mind. was no time, no possible time now, or she almost thought she would; and yet how could she, now or ever? Well, she could tell him it was about Irene she was in trouble; tell him she was missing, without telling the whole story. But he must almost have forgotten there was such a child. He would not understand why she must go; he might think there was no need; yet go she must. Bat she should have to give some reason for the journey. Could she not say that Mrs. Walton was in trouble, and wanted her? It would be quite true; in trouble she doubtless was, and wanting her. Yes, that would be best. Then she hurried home.

Susan," she said, when the door was opened, "I have received some ill news from Westhaven. A friend there is in trouble, and wants me to come to her. I am going at once-as soon as I have seen your master."

"Is there anything I can do to help you, ma'am? You will take some dinner first?" said Susan, following her mistress upstairs, wondering a little how the intelligence had been received, but more anxious to assist than to gratify her curiosity.

"You can make me a cup of coffee; I have no time for dinner, and no appetite. When Miss Alice returns, send her up to me, and let me know directly your master comes in. And please look for Bradshaw, and put it in the dining-room." That morning, however, Alice returned late; home first, and entered the room where the table was laid for dinner, but no one was there.

her father came

"Edward," Clarissa said, for, hearing his step, she had come

down directly; "since you left I have heard from Westhaven. Mrs. Walton is in trouble, and wants me to go to her. And I feel I must go at once," she said, a little pleadingly, as if fearing objection.

"Will you not stay for dinner?" he asked.

"No, Edward, please. I am sorry to leave you so hurriedly, but- she has always been so kind to me, you know. Would you see the exact time the train leaves ?"

Rapidly turning over the leaves of the time-table, he glanced down the column; "2.12," he said, "and that is a fast train." "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed, almost involuntarily. "Is the case so urgent? What is the nature of your trouble?"

friend's

"She is, she has, lost a friend, I think, and-the letter did not say very much."

"I do not wish you to betray any confidence reposed in you," he said, noticing her hesitation. "You must take something before you leave."

"Susan is getting me some coffee and toast; my head aches. with the hurry. I must be getting ready now," and she went upstairs again.

"Alice is late, too," he said; "but I must have dinner." He rang the bell, and, as the tray came up, Alice appeared.

"Where is mamma ?" she asked, in surprise, as she found only her papa seated at the table.

"Mamma has had a letter from Mrs. Walton, who is in trouble, and wants your mamma to come to her at once. She is dressing

now."

"Oh, I don't like mamma being away," she said, half rising; "and poor Mrs. Walton-I'm sorry."

"Sit still, my dear, and have your dinner. Mamma will come in before she leaves."

"I saw mamma had a letter-I happened to be passing. Little Katie Sillwood had the toothache, and cried to go home, and I offered to take her, that's how it was. It was not much like a letter, nor was it our postman-it was a boy; but mamma did not see me, and I could not stay, as I had promised that I would not.”

"That would have been a little past twelve o'clock?" he asked, knowing the usual post-time. The expression of his countenance had changed, but Alice's attention was diverted by the purring appeals of her favourite Tibby, and she had not noticed this.

"No, papa, just half-past eleven; I looked up at the church clock. "I wonder," she added, "whether it is anything about Irene," and then she wished, though she knew not why, that she had not said it.