"Poor Earle," she said. "Doris might be a little more civil to him. Although they are going to be married, Mattie, I do not think she cares for him a bit." Mattie made no answer. She had long since arrived at the same conclusion. Whatever Doris might be going to marry Earle for, it certainly was not for love. An hour passed. The sunshine grew warmer, the bees hummed, the butterflies with bright wings hovered round the roses; but neither Earle nor Doris returned. Earle hurried on the road to Quainton. As he crossed the high-road he saw a man breaking stones. He went up to him and asked him if he had seen a young lady pass by. "No; he had been to work there since five in the morning, but no one had passed by." "Strange," thought Earle; "but he is old and half blind--most probably he did not see her; yet, with her bright, lovely face, and hair like threads of gold, how could he miss her?" He walked on until he came to the toll-bar. Outside the pretty, white-gabled cottage a woman sat knitting in the sunshine. To her Earle went, with the same question--"Had she seen a young lady pass by?" "No." She had been there since seven, knitting and keeping the gate. There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young lady had passed by that gate since seven. He did not understand it, and a vague uneasiness came over him. Still he walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the post-office he found men busily repairing the outer wall--they had been at work some hours. From them he asked the same question--"Had they seen a young lady who had come to post letters?" "No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young lady. "Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; "my darling has not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is waiting for me now at home." He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers, he stopped and cried aloud: "Doris." The only answer that came to him was the rustling of the sweet western wind in the leaves, and the song of the birds. The church clock struck eleven as he came in sight of Brackenside. He raised his eager eyes--Heaven help him!--expecting to see Doris in the garden or in the porch; but she was not there. The sun was slanting over the flowers, the busy murmur of the farm grew louder. Mattie and Mrs. Brace still sat at their work, but of Doris there was no sign. "My darling!" he said to himself, "where is she?" "You have not met her, Earle?" said the loud, cheery voice of Mark Brace. "No, she has not been to Quainton," he replied, "and I do not know where to look for her."