We left Aunt Caroline at the Cottage, and drove together in all haste, and in perfect silence, to Fairview.

Mrs. Rayner was at breakfast when we entered the dining-room; I can see her still, with her egg-spoon in her hand.

“You are fine people!” she said, “but please remember another time that Constance is not such a horse as you are, and can’t stand exercise on an empty stomach.”

I stared stupidly, and then I said, but my voice was so low that I scarcely heard it: 

“We have not seen Constance this morning.”

Mrs. Rayner gave a shrill scream.

“My child!” she cried, “where is my child!” and ran from the room.  Gabriel and I stood motionless where she had left us, and clasped our cold hands.

“Emilia Fletcher!” called Mrs. Rayner from upstairs, with a hard ring in her voice, “come up; I want you a minute.”

And I went up.  The bed was tumbled, but she had not slept in it; her hat and cloak were gone.  I sat on the edge of the bed and shook from head to foot; Mrs. Rayner was running to and fro like a mad woman.

“She is gone!  Where is she gone?  I never said good night to her!” she shrieked.  “Mrs. Norton, you saw her last, you must know something of it.  Here are her boots, she must have gone out in her shoes; the soles were thin, she’ll catch her death of cold!” And she ran to the door, crying, “Constance!  Constance!”

I made my way to the dressing-table; I remembered to have seen her purse upon it when I went up to mend my dress the evening before.  It was gone, but in its place I found a little note with my name upon it.

I ran with it to Gabriel; I could not read it alone.  “A letter,” was all I said, and we read it in the bay-window, standing side by side.

“Emilia, dearest, you have given me so much, and now I have sinned against you.  You forgave me with your lips just now; forgive me with your heart when I am dead.  You must not blame me for what I do, you know I was always very weak; I cannot look you in the eyes again, nor him.  God will forgive me, I think.  Good-bye.  Be happy,—­neither you nor he must grieve for me; it is a poor little life that I throw away, and all the good I ever knew came from you or him.  Be happy—­Emilia, my old Emilia, good-bye.”

She was found towards evening, many miles from Miltonhoe, on the banks of the Avon.  Gabriel and I had been up and down the land all day, following her traces.

When we heard that she was found, we parted.

THE END.

* * * * *

AN AUTHOR’S LOVE.

Being the Unpublished Letters of

PROSPER MERIMEE’S “INCONNUE.”

Cloth. $1.00.

“The capriciousness, the coquetry, the tenderness,—­the womanliness, in short, which makes the letters in ‘An Author’s Love’ so charming, reconcile you to the audacity which has dared to assume the feminine side of this world-famous correspondence.”—­Boston Herald.