“On the hall table, ma’am, I believe. Miss Bessie left it there herself after she had wrote it.” “What made you lock the passage-door after you?” “Miss Bessie told me to, ma’am.” Heather could not understand the matter at all. She did not believe that there was a sentence of truth in the girl’s statement; but what her object might be in speaking falsely, she was unable to imagine. “Miss Ormson is awake, then?” she said, at length. “Yes, ma’am—leastways she was when I saw her.” Without another word, Mrs. Dudley turned to regain the hall. She wanted to see if the letter were really on the slab, and then she meant to go to Bessie’s room and ascertain whether or not Priscilla had spoken falsely. The whole thing baffled Heather. But for the locking of the door, she should have thought nothing more about the matter; but what object either Bessie or Priscilla could have in thus cutting off immediate communication between the two parts of the house, she was quite unable to divine. There on the slab lay Bessie’s letter—a thick letter, for Heather lifted and held it in her hand for a moment; then she laid it down again, and ascended the front staircase, slowly and thoughtfully. She had not reached the landing, however, before Priscilla was beside her. “Ma’am—Mrs. Dudley,” began the girl, “you can turn me out of the house this moment, if you like. I told you a lie about that letter. I did not go to Miss Bessie’s room for it. Miss Bessie is gone.” “Gone!” Heather looked at the girl, and blankly repeated that word after her. “Yes, ma’am; and there is a letter for you, please, on the toilet-table,” at which point in her confession Prissy began to whimper. “Don’t do that,” said Mrs. Dudley, almost angrily. “Go on before me to Miss Ormson’s room, and be quiet.” Thus ordered, Priscilla walked along the passage, and, opening the door of Bessie’s bedchamber, stood aside to allow Mrs. Dudley to enter. Heather, as she did so, glanced hurriedly round the apartment. There was no disorder, no confusion; everything looked precisely as it might have done, had Bessie been there—only Bessie was not there. Heather went up to the bed, and put her hand on the sheet. It felt warm, and she turned to Priscilla, saying, interrogatively— “She has only just left the house?” “She went at one o’clock, ma’am.” “Impossible! I have been in the room myself since four o’clock, and she was sleeping then.” “That was me, ma’am; and I was not asleep. I heard you come in—I never went to sleep all night. I’d have given anything, ma’am, if I might have told you. I never was so miserable in all my life—and poor Miss Bessie, she were a-crying dreadful.” “Where is she gone?” “I don’t know, ma’am.” “Who is she gone with?” “That gentleman as is so sweet on her.” “You don’t mean Mr. Harcourt?” “Lor’! no, ma’am; that other what she came back from church to meet yesterday.” Utterly bewildered, Heather stood in the middle of the room, confounded and almost stupified.