and still in a cool, darkened chamber overhead.  Bathsheba Stoker was not called handsome; but she had her mother’s youthful smile, which was so fresh and full of sweetness that she seemed like a beauty while she was speaking or listening; and she could never be plain so long as any expression gave life to her features.  In perfect repose, her face, a little prematurely touched by sad experiences,—­for she was but seventeen years old,—­had the character and decision stamped in its outlines which any young man who wanted a companion to warn, to comfort, and command him, might have depended on as warranting the courage, the sympathy, and the sense demanded for such a responsibility.  She had been trying her powers of consolation on Miss Silence.  It was a sudden freak of Myrtle’s.  She had gone off on some foolish but innocent excursion.  Besides, she was a girl that would take care of herself; for she was afraid of nothing, and nimbler than any boy of her age, and almost as strong as any.  As for thinking any bad thoughts about her, that was a shame; she cared for none of the young fellows that were round her.  Cyprian Eveleth was the one she thought most of; but Cyprian was as true as his sister Olive, and who else was there?

To all this Miss Silence answered only by sighing and moaning, For two whole days she had been kept in constant fear and worry, afraid every minute of some tragical message, perplexed by the conflicting advice of all manner of officious friends, sleepless of course through the two nights, and now utterly broken down and collapsed.

Bathsheba had said all she could in the way of consolation, and hastened back to her mother’s bedside, which she hardly left, except for the briefest of visits.

“It’s a great trial, Miss Withers, that’s laid on you,” said Nurse Byloe.

“If I only knew that she was dead, and had died in the Lord,” Miss Silence answered,—­“if I only knew that but if she is living in sin, or dead in wrong—­doing, what is to become of me?—­Oh, what is to become of me when ’He maketh inquisition far blood’?”

“Cousin Silence,” said Miss Cynthia, “it is n’t your fault, if that young girl has taken to evil ways.  If going to meeting three times every Sabbath day, and knowing the catechism by heart, and reading of good books, and the best of daily advice, and all needful discipline, could have corrected her sinful nature, she would never have run away from a home where she enjoyed all these privileges.  It’s that Indian blood, Cousin Silence.  It’s a great mercy you and I have n’t got any of it in our veins!  What can you expect of children that come from heathens and savages?  You can’t lay it to yourself, Cousin Silence, if Myrtle Hazard goes wrong”—­

“The Lord will lay it to me,—­the Lord will lay it to me,” she moaned.  “Did n’t he say to Cain, ‘Where is Abel, thy brother?’”