mother’s cry grew louder and wilder, Peter!  Peter, my darling! where are you?’ for then she felt and understood that that long kiss meant some sad kind of ‘good-bye.’  The afternoon went on—­my mother never resting, but seeking again and again in every possible place that had been looked into twenty times before, nay, that she had looked into over and over again herself.  My father sat with his head in his hands, not speaking except when his messengers came in, bringing no tidings; then he lifted up his face, so strong and sad, and told them to go again in some new direction.  My mother kept passing from room to room, in and out of the house, moving noiselessly, but never ceasing.  Neither she nor my father durst leave the house, which was the meeting-place for all the messengers.  At last (and it was nearly dark), my father rose up.  He took hold of my mother’s arm as she came with wild, sad pace through one door, and quickly towards another.  She started at the touch of his hand, for she had forgotten all in the world but Peter.

“‘Molly!’ said he, ‘I did not think all this would happen.’  He looked into her face for comfort—­her poor face all wild and white; for neither she nor my father had dared to acknowledge—­much less act upon—­the terror that was in their hearts, lest Peter should have made away with himself.  My father saw no conscious look in his wife’s hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the sympathy that she had always been ready to give him—­strong man as he was, and at the dumb despair in her face his tears began to flow.  But when she saw this, a gentle sorrow came over her countenance, and she said, ‘Dearest John! don’t cry; come with me, and we’ll find him,’ almost as cheerfully as if she knew where he was.  And she took my father’s great hand in her little soft one, and led him along, the tears dropping as he walked on that same unceasing, weary walk, from room to room, through house and garden.

“Oh, how I wished for Deborah!  I had no time for crying, for now all seemed to depend on me.  I wrote for Deborah to come home.  I sent a message privately to that same Mr Holbrook’s house—­poor Mr Holbrook;—­you know who I mean.  I don’t mean I sent a message to him, but I sent one that I could trust to know if Peter was at his house.  For at one time Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at the rectory—­you know he was Miss Pole’s cousin—­and he had been very kind to Peter, and taught him how to fish—­he was very kind to everybody, and I thought Peter might have gone off there.  But Mr Holbrook was from home, and Peter had never been seen.  It was night now; but the doors were all wide open, and my father and mother walked on and on; it was more than an hour since he had joined her, and I don’t believe they had ever spoken all that time.  I was getting the parlour fire lighted, and one of the servants was preparing tea, for I wanted them to have something to eat and drink and warm them, when old Clare asked to speak to me.