"That's the very question I've been wanting to ask you," father said. "Sit down, Mrs. Bowman," says mother. "Sit down and tell us what's gone wrong." Mrs. Bowman dropped into a chair, close to where she was standing. "He came in late last night," she said. "And he wouldn't say where he'd been. And he wouldn't take his supper. And he looked so strange. And this morning he never came to breakfast. And his door was locked. And he didn't answer. And when we got in he wasn't there. And his bed wasn't slept in. And a lot of his things are gone!" "Poor dear!" mother says, pitying-like, as the "And" got to be a gasp, and then a sob. "I shouldn't have thought it of Rupert." "But you don't think he's—gone!" father said. "Yes, I do think it," Mrs. Bowman cried, in a weak, broken sort of voice. "I do think it, and I'm sure of it! Kitty knows why! If you ask Kitty she can tell. She's driven him off, and that's what she's done." "Kitty!" father said, looking at me. Then he walked up to Mrs. Bowman. "Come, come, that's nonsense, you know," says he. "Kitty and Rupert are good enough friends, and always have been; but Kitty's not bound to favour him special, Mrs. Bowman. You can't say she is. And what's more, she's a deal too young for that sort of nonsense; if it's that you mean. Kitty's a child still, and Rupert's another. If he's got into a huff about Kitty, so much the worse for him; but I don't see that Kitty's to blame. However, I hope the lad's not so silly. I've got to go to the station now, and you'd best come along with me. I shouldn't wonder if we find Rupert there, all right. It's been a freak, going off early this morning—at least I hope so; and he'll be back soon, if he isn't back yet. Come along! If he's not at the station, I'll go home with you, and we'll think what to do." Father went off, walking sharp, and Mrs. Bowman trailed after him in a weak way, as if she wasn't sure whether she'd go or stay. Then mother said— "What does it mean, Kitty?" "Rupert has been so—tiresome, lately." "Tiresome what way?" says she. "Oh, just getting cross," I said. "What about?" says she. "He'd got a notion," I said. "Yes—a notion?" says she, waiting as quiet as anything, and I knew she didn't mean to let me off. "He wanted—wanted me—to—marry him," I said, crying anew. "And I— couldn't." "How do you know he wanted that?" said she. "He said it one day. And I ran away and left him, mother." "Not a bad plan," says she. "I wish a few more girls would run away from a few more lads. There'd be a lot of trouble spared. Well, how long ago was it?" I had to think a moment, before I could remember that it was just before the express train having to be stopped. "Rupert was wrong to speak to you," mother said. "He ought to have come first to father and me." But I thought of Mr. Russell, and I didn't say "Yes."