Miss Drayton and Pat went into the nursery and found the children at supper.

“I know, it’s late, ma’am,” said Martha, helplessly; “but Master Dunlop he wouldn’t let me have it afore.  Do eat now, Master Dunlop.  Here’s this nice strawberry jam.”

Dunlop took up the spoon, then paused to ask, “Do you reckon Anne has any strawberry jam for her supper?”

Pat shook his head.

Dunlop’s lip quivered.  “Then I don’t want any.  Take it away, Martha,” and he pushed aside the spoon.

“Do with Anne wath here,” lisped Arthur.  “I got her thweater yolled up smooth to keep for her.  Whyn’t she come?”

No one could tell him.

Miss Farlow wished Miss Drayton, according to Mr. Mayo’s request, to take charge of the child’s jewels.  But Miss Drayton refused.

“You keep them, please,” she urged.  “If—­when Anne comes back, it will be to you.  She does not know where we are.  Oh, I cannot bear the sight of those miserable jewels,” she exclaimed.  “The mere thought of them reminds me how I misjudged our poor child.”

There was nothing she could do in Richmond and she hurried back to Washington to consult her brother-in-law.  How unlike the merry journey of the day before was the silent, miserable trip!

“Don’t take it so hard, dear boy,” Miss Drayton said, clasping Pat’s hand which lay limp in hers a minute and was then withdrawn.  “We may find her yet,—­well and happy.”

She spoke in a half-hearted way and Pat shook his head hopelessly.  “She’s been gone two weeks,” he said, “and no sign of her.  I think about her—­like that woman said—­homeless—­friendless—­all alone—­a little lost child—­in the wet and dark, like last night.”  There was a moment’s silence.  Then Pat spoke again:  “Aunt Sarah, I shall never feel the same to father.  It is his fault.  He ought not to have put her there.  He ought to have told me where she was.  If he had told me when I asked him—­that was three weeks ago, you know.”

Miss Drayton reasoned, coaxed, entreated.  “Think of your mother, Pat,” she said gently.  “How you would grieve her!”

“I do think of her,” returned Pat.  “She would never have acted so.  And she would never have let father send Anne away.”

Miss Drayton sighed.  Was it not sad and pitiful enough to have that poor little orphan lost?  Must her dead sister’s husband be estranged from his only son?

Pat stood silent while Miss Drayton told his father the story of their journey.  Mr. Patterson listened—­surprised at first, then vexed.  Now and then, he interrupted with brief, pointed questions.  The answers left him anxious, distressed.  Presently he took off his eyeglasses and put his hand up as if to shade his eyes from the light.  When the tale was finished, there was a brief silence.  A gentle breeze rustled the elm-tree at the window.  A carriage clattered past.  A newsboy shouting “Papers!” ran down the quiet street.