"She shall never be sent off to school again," he commented; "but she shall stop at home. Poor little pet, she was always as happy as the day was long; she sha'n't have book-learning if she don't want it. I am too hard, I s'pose, with the child in sending her off among these primpy city gals, with their flounces and furbelows, with only three plain muslin frocks. The dickens fly away with the book-learnin'; I like her all the better just as she is, bless her dear little heart! I'm after little Daisy Brooks," he said, bowing to the ladies who met him at the door. "I heard she was here--run away from school, you see, ma'am--but I'll forgive the little gypsy. Tell her old Uncle John is here. She'll be powerful glad to see me." Slowly and gently they broke to him the cruel story. How the dark, handsome stranger had brought her there in the storm and the night; and they could not refuse her shelter; the gentleman claimed her to be his wife; of her illness which culminated in her disappearance. They never forgot the white, set face turned toward them. The veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and the perspiration rolled down his pallid cheeks in great quivering beads. This heart-rending, silent emotion was more terrible to witness than the most violent paroxysms of grief. Strangely enough they had quite forgotten to mention Rex's visit. "You don't know how I loved that child," he cried, brokenly. "She was all I had to love in the whole world, and I set such store by her, but Stanwick shall pay dearly for this," he cried, hoarsely. "I shall never rest day or night until my little Daisy's honor is avenged, so help me God! You think she is dead?" he questioned, looking brokenly from the one to the other. They only nodded their heads; they could not speak through their sobs. At that moment several of the neighbors who were assisting in the search were seen coming toward the cottage. They gathered in a little knot by the garden wall. With a heart heavier than lead in his bosom John Brooks went forward to meet them. "You haven't got any track of my little Daisy?" he asked, despondingly. The men averted their faces. "For God's sake speak out, my men!" he cried, in agony; "I can't stand this suspense." "There are footprints in the wet grass down yonder," one of them replied; "and they lead straight down to the old shaft. Do you think your girl has made away with herself?" A gray, ghastly pallor settled over John Brooks' anguished face. "The Lord knows! All of you stay here while I go down there and look. If I should find anything there I'd rather be alone." There was a depth of agony in the man's voice that touched his hearers, and more than one coat-sleeve was drawn hastily across sympathetic eyes as they whispered one to the other he would surely find her there.