“Go out, all of you, all round, and find ’em,” hoarsely whispered Mr. Buffum, “and bring ’em back, and say nothing about it.”

The men, including several of the more reliable paupers, divided themselves into little squads, and departed without breakfast, in order to get back before the farmers should drive by on their way to church.  The orchards, the woods, the thickets—­all possible covers—­were searched, and searched, of course, in vain.  One by one the parties returned to report that they could not find the slightest sign of the fugitives.

Mr. Buffum, who had not a question that the little boy had planned and executed the escape, assisted by the paroxysmal strength of his insane father, felt that he was seriously compromised.  The flight and undoubted death of old Tilden were too fresh in the public mind to permit this new reflection upon his faithfulness and efficiency as a public guardian to pass without a popular tumult.  He had but just assumed the charge of the establishment for another year, and he knew that Robert Belcher would be seriously offended, for more reasons than the public knew, or than that person would be willing to confess.  He had never in his life been in more serious trouble.  He hardly tasted his breakfast, and was too crusty and cross to be safely addressed by any member of his family.  Personally he was not in a condition to range the fields, and when he had received the reports of the parties who had made the search, he felt that he had a job to undertake too serious for his single handling.

In the meantime, Mr. Belcher had risen at his leisure, in blissful unconsciousness of the calamities that had befallen his protege.  He owned a pew in every church in Sevenoaks, and boasted that he had no preferences.  Once every Sunday he went to one of these churches; and there was a fine flutter throughout the building whenever he and his family appeared.  He felt that the building had received a special honor from his visit; but if he was not guided by his preferences, he certainly was by his animosities.  If for three or four Sabbaths in succession he honored a single church by his presence, it was usually to pay off a grudge against some minister or member of another flock.  He delighted to excite the suspicion that he had at last become attached to one clergyman, and that the other churches were in danger of being forsaken by him.  It would be painful to paint the popular weakness and the ministerial jealousy—­painful to describe the lack of Christian dignity—­with which these demonstrations of worldly caprice and arrogance, were watched by pastor and flock.

After the town meeting and the demonstration of the Rev. Solomon Snow, it was not expected that Mr. Belcher would visit the church of the latter for some months.  During the first Sabbath after this event, there was gloom in that clergyman’s congregation; for Mr. Belcher, in his routine, should have illuminated their public services by his presence, but he did not appear.