town with her mite, which, added to the sale of the piano, Ethie’s protracted absence, Richard’s return to Olney at midnight, and Harry Clifford’s serious and mysterious manner, were enough to set the town in motion.  Various opinions were expressed, and, what was very strange, so popular were both Richard and Ethelyn that everybody disliked blaming either, and so but few unkind remarks had as yet been made, and those by people who had been jealous or envious of Ethelyn’s high position.  No one knew a whisper of Frank Van Buren, for Harry kept his promise well, and no worse motive was ascribed to Ethie’s desertion than want of perfect congeniality with her husband.  Thus they were not foes, but friends, who welcomed Richard back to Camden, watching him curiously, and wishing so much to ask where Mrs. Markham was.  That she was not with him, was certain, for only Andy came—­Andy, who held his head so high, and looked round so defiantly, as he kept close to Richard’s side on the way to the hotel.  It was very dreary going up the old, familiar staircase into the quiet hall, and along to the door of the silent room, which seemed drearier than on that night when he first came back to it and found Ethie gone.  There were ashes now upon the stove-hearth where Hal Clifford had kindled the fire, and the two chairs they had occupied were standing just where they had left them.  The gas had not been properly turned off, and a dead, sickly odor filled the room, making Andy heave as he hastened to open the window, and admit the fresh, pure air.

“Seems as it did the day Daisy died,” Andy said, his eyes filling with tears.

To Richard it was far worse than the day Daisy died, for he had then the memory of her last loving words in his ear, and the feeling of her clinging kiss upon his lips, while now the memories of the lost one were only bitter and sad in the extreme.

“Melinda suggested a letter or something.  Where do you suppose she would put it if there were one?” Richard asked in a helpless, appealing way, as he sank into a chair and looked wistfully around the room.

He had been very bold and strong in the cars and in the street; but here, in the deserted room, where Ethie used to be, and where something said she would never be again, he was weak as a girl, and leaned wholly upon Andy, who seemed to feel how much was depending upon him, and so kept up a cheery aspect while he kindled a fresh fire and cleared the ashes from the hearth by blowing them off upon the oilcloth; then, as the warmth began to make itself felt and the cold to diminish, he answered Richard’s query.

“In her draw, most likely; mother mostly puts her traps there.”  So, to the “draw” they went—­the very one where Daisy’s ring was lying; and Richard saw that first, knowing now for sure that Ethelyn had fled.

He knew so before, but this made it more certain—­more dreadful, too, for it showed a determination never to return.