The storm passed away, but they could not sleep.  Wearied nature sought, but could find no repose.  Each tossed and turned and wished for the morning, and when the morning began to dawn they closed their eyes, and almost wished the darkness had continued.  A troubled sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the name of his child.  The quick ear of the mother caught the word, and it thrilled through every nerve.  Tears stole down her cheeks, and her heart swelled near to bursting with maternal instincts.  The vision of his child that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and with the murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness.  Lifting himself up, he saw the tearful face of his wife.  He could not mistake the cause.  Why should she weep but for her child?  He looked at her for a moment, when she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her tearful face on his breast.

The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the parents gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters.  They talked of Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept for their lost one.  But where was she? how could they find her?

The sun had scarcely risen, when Mr. Jackson set out to seek for his child, while his wife remained at home in a state of agonizing suspense.  He knew not whether she were alive or dead; in New York or elsewhere.  The second day brought Mrs. Jackson a letter, it ran as follows:—­

“I have searched in vain for our Constance.  But how could it be otherwise?  Who should know more about her than myself?  I have asked some of our old acquaintances if they ever heard of her since her marriage.  They shake their heads and look at me as though they thought me demented.  Laura Wykoff, you know, married some years ago.  I called upon her.  She knew little or nothing; but said, she had heard that her husband who had become dissipated had left her and gone off to Baltimore.  She thought it highly probable that she had been dead some years.  She treated me coldly enough.  But I feel nothing for myself.  Poor, dear child! where can thy lot be cast?  Perhaps, how dreadful the thought! she may have dragged her drooping, dying form past our dwelling, once her peaceful home, and looked her last look upon the door shut to her for ever, while the cold winds of winter chilled her heart in its last pulsations.  Oh, I fear we have murdered our poor child!  Every meagre-looking, shrinking female form I pass on the street, makes my heart throb.  ‘Perhaps that is Constance,’ I will say, and hasten to read the countenance of the forlorn one.  But I turn away, and sigh; ’where, where can she be?’