But the man clinging to the wall was not forced to move. The doctor did not heed her entreaty, or if he did he ignored it, for his voice went coldly and impassively on: “The night after your mother was buried, your father was seen looking from one of the windows of his house. The next morning he was missing. That is all I can tell you, Polly. No one knows any more than that.” “But wasn’t there somebody in the house besides himself? Where was I?” “Oh, you were there, and an old woman who had been looking after you in your mother’s illness. But you were too young to realize anything, and the woman—she has since died—had nothing to say, but that she was sure she heard your father go out.” “And the money?” “Went with him.” “Oh, I have heard it all before,” came after a moment’s silence, in sharp and plaintive tones. “But I was in hopes you could tell me something different, something new. Did they look for my father as I would have done had I been old enough to understand?” “I headed the search myself, Polly; and later the police from Boston came down, and went through the town thoroughly. But they met with no results.” “And now a stranger leaves me twenty thousand dollars! Dr. Izard, I should like to know something about that stranger. He died in the Chicago Hospital, I am told.” “I will make inquiries.” “If—if he had anything to do with my father’s disappearance——” “You will never know it; the man is dead.” A silence followed these few words, during which the agitated breathing of the young girl could be heard. Then her quivering voice rose in the impatient cry: “Yes, yes; but it would be such a relief to know the truth. As it is, I am always thinking that each stranger I see coming into town is he. Not that it makes me timid or melancholy; nothing could do that, I think; but still I’m not quite happy, nor can this money make me so while any doubts remain as to my father’s fate.” “I cannot help you,” the doctor declared. “For fourteen years you have borne your burden, little one, and time should have taught you patience. If I were in a position like yours I would not allow old griefs to fret me. I should consider that a man who had been missing most of my lifetime was either dead or so indifferent that I ran but little chance of seeing him again. I myself do not think there is the least likelihood of your ever doing so. Why then not be happy?” “Well, I will,” she sighed. “I’m sure it’s not my nature to be otherwise. But something either in these dismal trees, or in yourself or in myself makes me almost gloomy to-night. I feel as if a cloud, hung over me. Am I very foolish, doctor, and will you be taking me back to the office to give me a dose of some bitter, black stuff to drive away the horrors? I had rather you would give me a fatherly word. I’m so alone in the world, for all my friends.”