“Sad thing, that, up on the hill.”

“What?” said Keith, absently.

“The old lady’s death and the breaking up of the old place,” he said.

“Oh!—­yes, it is,” said Keith; and then, thinking that he could learn if Miss Huntington were there without appearing to do so, except casually, he said: 

“Who is there now?”

“There is not any one there at all, I believe.”

Keith ordered a room, and a half-hour later went out.

Instead of taking a carriage, he walked There had been a change in the weather.  The snow covered everything, and the grounds looked wintry and deserted.  The gate was unlocked, but had not been opened lately, and Keith had hard work to open it wide enough to let himself through.  He tramped along through the snow, and turning the curve in the road, was in front of the house.  It was shut up.  Every shutter was closed, as well as the door, and a sudden chill struck him.  Still he went on; climbed the wide, unswept steps, crossed the portico, and rang the bell, and finally knocked.  The sound made him start.  How lonesome it seemed!  He knocked again, but no one came.  Only the snowbirds on the portico stopped and looked at him curiously.  Finally, he thought he heard some one in the snow.  He turned as a man came around the house.  It was the old coachman and factotum.  He seemed glad enough to see Keith, and Keith was, at least, glad to see him.

“It’s a bad business, it is, Mr. Kathe,” he said sadly.

“Yes, it is, John.  Where is Miss Huntington?”

“Gone, sir,” said John, with surprise in his voice that Keith should not know.

“Gone where?”

“An’ that no one knows,” said John.

“What!  What do you mean?”

“Just that, sir,” said the old fellow.  “She went away two days after the funeral, an’ not a worrd of her since.”

“But she’s at some relative’s?” said Keith, seeking information at the same time he gave it.

“No, sir; not a relative in the world she has, except Mr. Wentworth in New York, and she has not been there.”

Keith learned, in the conversation which followed, that Miss Abigail had died very suddenly, and that two days after the funeral Miss Lois had had the house shut up, and taking only a small trunk, had left by train for New York.  They had expected to hear from her, though she had said they would not do so for some time; and when no letter had come they had sent to New York, but had failed to find her.  This all seemed natural enough.  Lois was abundantly able to take care of herself, and, no doubt, desired for the present to be in some place of retirement.  Keith decided, therefore, that he would simply go to the city and ascertain where she was.  He thought of going to see Dr. Locaman, but something restrained him.  The snow was deep, and he was anxious to find Lois; so he went straight down to the city that evening.  The next day he discovered that it was not quite so easy to find one who wished to be lost.  Norman knew nothing of her.