As evening came quietly down, sobering into a browner mood the feelings of Mr. Jackson, the merchant turned his steps slowly towards his home.  Naturally, the smiling image of his daughter came up before his mind, and he quickened his pace instinctively.  He remembered how nearly he had lost even this darling treasure, and chid himself for being troubled at the loss of a few thousand dollars, when he was so rich in the love of a lovely child.  He rang the bell with a firmer hand, and stepped more lightly as he entered the hall, in anticipation of the sweet smile of his heart’s darling.  He felt a little disappointed at not finding her in the sitting-room, but did not ask for her, in expectation of seeing her enter each moment.  So much was he engrossed with her image that he almost forgot his business troubles.  Gradually his mind, from the over-excitement of the day, became a little fretted, as he listened in vain for her light foot-fall at the door.  When the bell rung for tea, he started, and asked,—­

“Where is Constance?”

“In her room, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Jackson, indifferently.  They seated themselves at the tea-table, and waited for a few moments; but Constance did not come.

“John, run up and call Constance; perhaps she did not hear the bell.”

John returned in a moment with the intelligence that his young mistress was not there.

“Then, where is she?” asked both the parents at once.

“Don’t know,” replied John, mechanically.

“Call Sarah.”

Sarah came.

“Where is Constance?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“Did she go out this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma’am.  She went out about two hours ago, ma’am.”

“That’s strange,” said her mother.  “She always tells me where she is going.”

Both parents left the tea-table, each with a heavy presentiment of coming trouble about the heart.  They went, as by one consent, to Constance’s chamber.  The mother proceeded to look into her drawers, and found to her grief and astonishment that they were nearly all empty.

For some time, neither spoke a word.  The truth had flashed upon the mind of each at the same moment.

“It may not yet be too late,” were the first words spoken, and by the mother.

“It is too late,” was the brief, but meaning response.

From that time her name was not mentioned, and even her portrait was taken down and thrown into the lumber-room.  Her few letters, after her hasty and imprudent marriage, were burned up without being opened.  So much for wounded family pride!  But think not that her image was really obliterated from their minds.  No—­no.  It was there an ever constant and living presence.—­

Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, yet they could not drive away her spiritual presence.