In her cottage by the mine old Hagar had raved and sung and wept, talking much of Margaret, but never telling whither she had gone.  Latterly, however, she had grown more calm, talking far less than heretofore, and sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the servant who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many hours alone, while she, at the stone house, passed her time more agreeably than at the lonesome hut.  On the afternoon of which we write she was as usual at the house, and though the sun went down she did not hasten back, for her patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she woke she did not need much care.

Meantime old Hagar slumbered on.  It was a deep, refreshing sleep, and when at last she did awake, her reason was in a measure restored, and she remembered everything distinctly up to the time of Margaret’s last visit, when she said she was going away.  And Margaret had gone away, she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton stood once within that room, and besought of her to tell if she knew aught of Maggie’s destination.  She did know, but she had not told, and perhaps they had not found her yet.  Raising herself in bed, she called aloud to the servant, but there came no answer; and for an hour or more she waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more excited.  If Margaret were found she wished to know it, and if she were not found it was surely her duty to go at once and tell them where she was.  But could she walk?  She stepped upon the floor and tried.  Her limbs trembled beneath her weight, and, sinking into a chair, she cried, “I can’t!  I can’t!”

Half an hour later she heard the sound of wheels.  A neighboring farmer was returning home from Richland, and had taken the cross road as his shortest route.  “Perhaps he will let me ride,” she thought, and, hobbling to the door, she called after him, making known her request.  Wondering what “new freak” had entered her mind, the man consented, and just as it was growing dark he set her down at Madam Conway’s gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered woman gazed around.  The windows of Margaret’s room were open, a figure moved before them; Margaret might be there; and entering the hall door unobserved, she began to ascend the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and pausing several times to rest.

It was nearly dark in the sickroom, and as Mrs. Jeffrey had just gone out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was enjoying a quiet talk with her husband, Madam Conway was quite alone.  For a time she lay thinking of Margaret; then her thoughts turned upon George and his “amazing proposition.”  “Such unheard of insolence!” she exclaimed, and she was proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a peculiar noise upon the stairs caught her ear, and raising herself upon her elbow she listened intently to the sound, which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like someone creeping slowly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a long-drawn breath or groan, and