No sound; no footstep.  She waited a full half hour, then Caleb returned from the barn, having milked the cows, a labor which he had performed since Margaret’s illness.

“That gal ain’t up yet,” said his wife, as he came and placed the pails on the table.

His breath came fast, for he feared she might be ill, or dead, perhaps.

“Go and see what the matter is,” he said to his wife.  But as she was somewhat afraid to enter a room where all was so silent, she hesitated.  At length she mounted the stairs very slowly, calling Margaret’s name at each step.  When she had reached the landing, she found the door wide open, but no Margaret was there, and the bed was undisturbed.  Pale and trembling, she went down stairs.

“She’s-she’s gone!” were the words with which she met her husband’s inquiring gaze.  “Yes, gone; run away, I s’pose, in the night.”

Mr. Thorne sank into the nearest seat, almost paralyzed with emotion and apprehension.

“Gone?” he repeated; it was a long time before he could take in her meaning.  It came at last; not as some truths do with a flash, but it dropped like lead into his soul, down-down-to depths he knew not of.  And she had gone, just when he was waking to realize a fraction of her worth; just as he was learning to look with a single spark of love on her young, fair face, growing every day so much like her dear, dead mother’s.

He leaned his face upon his hands and wept.  The fount of feeling long dried was touched, and his heart felt a tenderness it had never known before, for his child.

Through the dark atmosphere about his soul a ray of light broke in.  Down through long years it crept, and seemed to carry him back to the time when his Mary was a bride.

There comes a moment to every soul, when its treasures are truly appreciated; when hearts God has given to love and bless us are rightly valued.  Well is it for us if that moment comes while they are with us in the earthly form.

It seemed but yesterday when she was a bride, white in soul, as well as attire.  How vividly the scene now stood before him, and he felt, as he then did, the beating of her young, trusting heart, which she gave into his keeping.

Down through all these years flowed the light of recollection, and brought to mind the morning when a tiny babe was placed beside its mother for him to love and cherish.  Grief shook his soul to its foundations.  Through his rough nature crept a tenderness he had not known for years, for those two treasures-one beneath the sod; the other,—­where?

“I s’pose you did n’t look to see if the door was onbolted, did you?” remarked his wife, wondering what made him so long silent.

“Come to think ’ont, ’t was,” he answered, like one awaking from a dream.

“Then, the ungrateful thing’s gone; and I am glad, if she could n’t be more thankful to us for her home.”

“Yes,—­Margaret’s gone.”  His voice sounded far off, as though his soul was off in search of her.