* * * * *

The Kinloch estate, and how it was settled.

[Concluded.]

CHAPTER XII.

The disappearance of Lucy Ransom did not long remain a secret; it rang through the town, and was accompanied by all sorts of rumors.  Some thought she had eloped; but the prevailing opinion was, that she had been tempted into a fatal error, and then, in the frenzy of remorse and shame, had destroyed herself, in order to hide her disgrace from the world.  Slight hints were now recalled by many of the poor girl’s acquaintance,—­hints of love, unrequited and hopeless,—­of base and unfeeling treachery,—­of remediless sorrow, appealing to the deepest sympathy, and not the less because her heart found utterance in rude and homely phrases.  This idea of self-destruction gained the more currency because no one had seen the least trace of the girl after the twilight of the preceding night, and it was deemed improbable that she could have made her way on foot the whole distance to the railway-station without being seen by some one.  And when it was reported that a boy had found a shawl not far from the dam, the public became so much aroused that it was determined to make a thorough search.  The pond and canal were dragged, and the bank of the river carefully explored for miles below the town.  The search was kept up far into the night, the leaders being provided with pitch-pine torches.  At every bend, or eddy, or sand-bar, or fallen tree, where it might be supposed that a drifting body would be stopped, the boldest breathed faster, and started at the first glimpse of a white stone or a peeled and bleached poplar-trunk, or other similar object, fearing it might prove to be what they expected, yet dreaded to see.  But it was in vain.  Lucy, whether alive or dead, was not to be found.  Her grandmother hobbled down to the village, moaning piteously; but she could get little consolation, least of all from Mrs. Kinloch.  This incident made a lasting impression.  The village boys, who remembered the search with shuddering horror, avoided the river, and even Hugh found means to persuade Mildred to give up the pleasant road on its bank and take the hill district for their afternoon rides.

Meanwhile the time for the trial of the ejectment suit was rapidly approaching, and it was difficult to say whether plaintiff or defendant showed the more signs of anxiety.  Mr. Hardwick’s life seemed to be bound up in his shop; it was dear to him in the memory of long years of cheerful labor; it was his pride as well as his dependence; he had grown old by its flaming forge, and he could never feel at home in any other spot.  “Young trees may be moved,” he would say; “an old one dies in transplanting.”  It was noticed by all his friends that the stoop in his shoulders was more decided, his step less elastic, and his ordinary flow of spirits checked.