There was no light in the room; a faint paleness to show the window, a silence that was terrible, an atmosphere as of death itself. Rosalind flew, half frantic, into the dressing-room adjoining, which for some time past had been occupied by Jane. There a night-light which had been left burning flickered feebly, on the point of extinction. The faint light showed the same vacancy--the bed spread in cold order, everything empty, still. Rosalind felt her senses giving way. Her impulse was to rush out through the house, calling, asking, Where were they? Death seemed to be in the place--death more mysterious and more terrible than that with which she had been made familiar. After a pause she left the room and hurried breathless to that occupied by her uncle. How different there was the atmosphere, charged with human breath, warm with occupation. She burst in, too terrified for thought. “Uncle John!” she cried, “Uncle John!” taking him by the shoulder. It was not easy to wake him out of his deep sleep. At last he sat up in his bed, half awake, and looked at her with consternation. “Rosalind! what is the matter?” he cried. “Mamma is not in her room--where is she, where is she?” the girl demanded, standing over him like a ghost in the dark. “Your mother is not-- I--I suppose she’s tired, like all the rest of us,” he said, with a sleepy desire to escape this premature awakening. “Why, it’s dark still, Rosalind. Go back to bed, my dear. Your mother--” “Listen, Uncle John. Mamma is not in her room. No one has slept there to-night; it is all empty; my mother is gone, is gone! Where has she gone?” the girl cried, wildly. “She has not been there all night.” “Good God!” John Trevanion cried. He was entirely roused now. “Rosalind, you must be making some mistake.” “There is no mistake. I thought perhaps you might know something. No one has slept there to-night. Oh, Uncle John, Uncle John, where is my mother? Let us go and find her before everybody knows.” “Rosalind, leave me, and I will get up. I can tell you nothing--yes, I can tell you something; but I never thought it would be like this. It is your father who has sent her away.” “Papa!” the girl cried; “oh, Uncle John, stop before you have taken everything away from me; neither father nor mother!--you take everything from me!” she said, with a cry of despair. “Go away,” he said, “and get dressed, Rosalind, and then we can see whether there is anything to be done.”