“Come in, Susan.  Miss ’Toinette, did you say?  She is down in the drawing-room by herself, and you had better put her to bed at once.  She must be very tired.”

Alas! the tender mother little guessed how tired!

Without reply, Susan closed the door, and ran down stairs; an uneasy feeling creeping over her, although she would not yet confess it even to herself.

The drawing-room was still empty; but James had lighted the gas and stirred the fire, so that every corner was as light as day.  In every window-recess, under every couch and sofa, behind every large chair, even in the closet of the ‚tagŠre, Susan searched for her little charge, hoping, praying to find her asleep, or roguishly hiding, as she had known her to do before.  But all in vain:  no merry face, no sunny curls, no laughing eyes, peeped out from recess or corner or hiding place; and Susan’s ruddy face grew pale even to the lips.

She flew to the dining-room, and searched it as narrowly as she had done the drawing-room.

No:  she was not there!

The library, the bath-room, the chambers, the nursery again, the servants’ chambers, the kitchen, laundry, pantries, the very cellar!

No, no, no!  ’Toinette was in none of them.  ’Toinette was not in any nook of the whole wide house, that, without her, seemed so empty and desolate.  Standing in one of the upper entries, mute and bewildered, Susan heard a latch-key turn in the front-door lock, and presently Mr. Legrange’s pleasant voice speaking in the hall.  A sudden hope rushed into Susan’s heart.  The child might possibly have gone to meet her father, and was now returned with him.  She rushed down stairs as fast as her feet could carry her; but in the hall stood only Mr. Legrange, talking to James, who had some message to deliver to him.

As Susan flew down the stairs, the master turned and looked at her in some surprise.

“Be careful, Susan:  you nearly fell then.  Is any thing the matter?”

“Miss ’Toinette, sir:  I can’t find her, high nor low!” gasped Susan.

“Can’t find her!  Good heavens! you don’t mean to say she’s lost!” exclaimed the father, turning, and staring at the nurse in dismay.

“Oh!  I don’t know, sir, I’m sure; but I can’t find her,” cried Susan, wildly bursting into tears.

“Where is her mother?  Where is Mrs. Legrange, James?”

“I don’t know, sir, I’m sure,” said the footman blankly.

“She’s in her own room, sir; and I’m afraid to go to tell her, she’ll feel that bad.  And indeed it wasn’t any fault of mine:  I only went”—­

“Hush!” exclaimed Mr. Legrange, who had heard his wife close her chamber-door and begin to descend the stairs, and did not wish her to be frightened.

“Wait here a moment, Susan,” added he, and, running up stairs, entered the drawing-room just after his wife, who stood before the fire, looking so pretty and so gay in her blue silk-dress, with a ribbon of the same shade twisted among her golden curls, that her husband shrunk back, dreading to ask the question that must so shock and startle her.  But Mrs. Legrange had caught sight of him, and, running to the door, opened it suddenly, crying,—­