Her aunt lived in a neighboring town,--probably she had gone there. It was only four miles away,--a walk Ruth had taken many a day, and thought nothing of it; but it was imprudent starting on such a journey so late in the evening; and, besides, there was always the old mare to drive her there and back. Messengers were despatched to her aunt's house, but they returned bringing no tidings. She was not there--had not been for over a fortnight. Day wanes; twilight is descending,-- "Melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams." All day the miller has sat apart, his snow-white head upon his arms, in the room her hands had beautified and made so dear. With passionate indignation he has thrust from him all the attempts at sympathy, all the hurtful, though well-meant, offers of assistance held out to him by kindly neighbors. Silent, and half maddened by his thoughts, he sits dogged and silent, refusing food, and waiting only for her who never comes. But when, at length, the gloaming comes, and day is over, without bringing to him the frail form of her he so desires, he rises, and, pushing back his chair, goes up to Hythe, and into the presence of Lord Sartoris. "_You_ will find me my girl," he says, and then he tells him all the story. Sartoris listens, and, as he does so, sickens with doubt that is hardly a doubt, and fear that is nearly a certainty. Is this the end he has so dreaded? Is this the creeping horror that has of late so tortured him? Alas for the unblemished honor of the old name that for centuries has held itself _sans peur et sans reproche_. How can he dare to offer consolation to old Annersley? He covers his face with his hands, and bends forward over the table. There is something in his attitude that denotes despair, and renders more keen the agony in Annersley's bosom. "Why do you do that?" he cries, fiercely. "What is there to groan about? Nothing, I tell you! The child has gone too far,--has lost her way. She didn't understand. She cannot find her road home.--No more--no more!" His excitement and grief are pitiful to see. He wrings his hands; his whole bearing and expression are at variance with his hopeful words. "She will come back in an hour or two, mayhap," he says, miserably, "and then I shall feel that I have disturbed your lordship: but I am in a hurry, you see: I want her, and I cannot wait." "What do you want me to do for you?" says Sartoris, very humbly. He feels that he can hardly lift his eyes in this man's presence. "Find her! That is all I ask of you. Find her, dead or alive! You are a great man,--high in authority, with power, and servants at command. Find me my child! Oh, _man_, help me, in some way!" He cries this in an impassioned tone. He is totally overcome. His poor old white head falls helplessly upon his clasped arms.