"Myself! What on earth are you thinking of?" It is now Georgie's turn to blush crimson, and she does it very generously. Then she breaks into wild mirth, and, laying her head on Clarissa's knees, laughs till she nearly cries. "Oh, when I think of all I have said!" she goes on, the keenest enjoyment in her tone,--"how I praised myself, and how cavalierly I treated his proposal, and--what was it I said about asking him to name the wedding-day? Oh, Clarissa, what a dear you are!--and what a _goose_!" "Well, certainly, I never was so taken in in my life," confesses Miss Peyton, and then she laughs too, and presently is as deeply interested in Cissy's lover as if he had indeed been Georgie's. CHAPTER XXI. "Sin and shame are ever tied together With Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun, They cannot without violence be undone."--WEBSTER. "Sharper than the stings of death!"--REYNOLDS. Upon Pullingham a great cloud has descended. It has gathered in one night,--swiftly, secretly,--and has fallen without warning, crushing many hearts beneath it. Shame, and sin, and sorrow, and that most terrible of all things--uncertainty--have come together to form it, while doubt and suspicion lie in its train. Ruth Annersley is missing! She has disappeared,--utterly! entirely!--leaving no trace behind her, no word, no line to relieve the heart of the old man, her father, and which is slowly beginning to break, as the terrible truth dawns upon him. Only yester eve she had poured out his tea as usual, had bidden him good night,--lovingly, indeed, but not as one would bid an eternal farewell. Afterwards, he remembered, she had not given him--on that night of all others--the customary kiss, but had passed away from him coldly, callously--or was it that she feared? Tired out with his day's work, the miller had gone to bed The girl, as was her habit ever since the longer evenings had set in, had gone for a little walk into the dewy woods, where we are told "every bough that moves over our head has an oracular wisdom." Alas! that they should have taught her so little. She had crossed the road before the very eyes of her household, had entered the green forest of early-breaking leaves, had faded from sight, and never came back again. The old man, who rises and goes to bed with the sun (most constant companion of simple minds), had slept peacefully all night, never doubting that the child of his heart lay dreaming calm and happy dreams in her own room. Not until the morning was far advanced did he discover that Ruth's bed had known no occupant the night before. Afterwards, too, he remembered how little this thought had jarred upon him just at first. It was strange, vexing; she should have told him where she meant to spend her evening; but, beyond that, it caused him no pang, no suspicion.