Perhaps if she had not been so absorbed in the recovery of Dorothy, her attention would have been arrested on perusing one of the daily papers by an ambiguous paragraph referring to a choice morsel of scandal on the "tapis" in a prominent family, and which was likely to terminate in a tragedy. It was a society paragraph separate from the report of the probable drowning of the child, Dorothy Thorpe. Several personal acquaintances had become aware, through the crafty Rutley, of a serious difference having arisen between John Thorpe and his beautiful wife, and some of these personal acquaintances, with significant looks, at once connected it with the mysterious disappearance of the child. The fact that none of the fashionable set had visited her since the reception did not suggest a thought of being shunned. And so she waited for news of her child--waited with heart leaden with the chill of hope deferred--waited in momentary expectation of the home-coming of John. She watched for him through the window, foreshadowing by his appearance on the walk gladness or sorrow. "It is now the second day," she muttered, "since that eventful night, and yet no relief from this awful suspense. No word to cheer, or lead me to hope that Dorothy lives." "It is no use grieving so much, Constance," broke in Hazel, who had just entered the room. "Dorothy may be safe with her father, somewhere. Try, dear, to think so, anyway. It is much the best." "I cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, Hazel. Something tells me that I shall see her no more," and tears came into her eyes, despite her efforts to restrain them. "There, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin' us all feel miserable." It was Smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathy and tenderness, the common heritage of his race. He had entered the room by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand--a short, thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in its lines of "true to a trust." His thin hair was tinged with gray. He wore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, that style of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partly concealing the "humiliating" curves of his short bent legs, and also the dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. He had been the family coachman for some years, and was familiarly called "Smith." As Constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive of tearful sympathy. "Will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may it plaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear." "You have always been a good soul, Smith," and Constance tried to smile through her tears. "Of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search," remarked Hazel. He was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with his hat.