“Yes,—­what has become of her?”

“You see how philosophical I am.  I have not seen her yet; and yet I am not crazy about it.  Some chickens think the sky is falling, whenever a rose-leaf drops on their heads.”

“But you have no such reason to be anxious.”

“Haven’t I?  Do you think old fellows like me have lost recollection as well as feeling?  One of the most deadly cases of romance I ever knew was between people of forty and upwards.”

“How dull I was!  I saw some rather odd glances between you at the musical party, but thought nothing more about it.  But why haven’t you been looking for her?”

“I have been cogitating,” said Easelmann, twisting his moustaches.

“I should think so.  If you had asked me, now!  I went with her to the house where I suppose she is still boarding.”

“Did you?” [very indifferently, and with the falling inflection.]

“Why, don’t you want to know?”

“Yes,—­to-morrow.  And I think, that, when we find her, we may find a clue to your Alice.”

Greenleaf started up as if he had been galvanized.

“You have seen her, then!  You old fox!  Where is she?  To-morrow, indeed!  Tell me, and I will fly.”

“You can’t; for, as Brother Chadband observed, you haven’t any wings.”

“Don’t trifle with me.  I know your fondness for surprises; but if you love me, don’t put me off with your nonsense.”

Greenleaf was thoroughly in earnest, and Easelmann took a more soothing tone.  At another time the temptation to tease would have been irresistible.

“Be calm, you man of gunpowder, steel, whalebone, and gutta-percha!  I positively have nothing but guesses to give you.  Besides, do you think you have nothing to do but rush into Alice’s arms when you find her?  Take some valerian to quiet your nerves, and go to bed.  In the morning, try to smooth over those sharp features of yours.  Use rouge, if you can’t get up your natural color.  When you are presentable, come over here again, and we’ll stroll out in search of adventure.  But mind, I promise nothing,—­I only guess.”

While he spoke, Greenleaf looked into the mirror, and was surprised to see how anxiety had worn upon him.  His face was thin and bloodless, and his eyes sunken, but glowing.  The quiet influence of his friend calmed him, and his impatience subsided.  He took his leave silently, wringing Easelmann’s hand, and walked home with a lighter heart.

“He is a good fellow,” mused Easelmann, “and has suffered enough for his folly.  The lesson will do him good.”

CHAPTER XXVI.