Dr. Stapleton, a friend of the family, called early, and asked after the health of the bride. “I am now going to see her,” said Mrs. Wythburn; and she went away wearing the bright look of love which makes mothers’ faces so beautiful. But in a few minutes she came back, looking quite changed. Her face had lost its colour, and she trembled so that she could scarcely walk. She seemed to have become suddenly blind, for although the drawing-room door stood open she appeared to be feeling for the handle. The only person who observed her was Margaret Miller, who saw at a glance that either Mrs. Wythburn had been taken suddenly ill, or something dreadful had happened. Swiftly and silently Margaret went to her side, and, closing the door behind them, led the shaking women into the dining-room. “What is the matter, Mrs. Wythburn? I hope nothing is wrong. Where is Mary?” Mrs. Wythburn tried to speak, but at first no words could be uttered. Margaret was as tender as a daughter. “Don’t be frightened, my dear, whatever it is,” she said. “There is a little mistake, somehow, perhaps. Or a little sudden faintness, which will pass off presently.” After a time Mrs. Wythburn managed to gasp out a few words. “Margaret, there is great trouble. I do not know what it is. Fetch my husband.” They had been married many years, but they were a very kindly Darby and Joan, and the wife felt as if she could not break to her husband the news that she had to tell. “Why, Martha, what is the matter?” “Oh, John, God help us, for something terrible has happened!” “Don’t give way, dearie; we have borne some troubles together, and we will meet this. Tell me what it is. Is it anything about Mary?” “Yes, it is. Mary—Mary is gone!” “Gone where?” “Ah, that is it! Mary has not slept in her room, and she is not in the house. No one has seen her this morning, and she is not to be found anywhere. I have questioned the servants; I have searched every room.” Here the poor woman’s feeling quite overcame her, and Mr. Wythburn placed her on the couch and went straight to his daughter’s apartment. It was true. The dainty little room was in perfect order, save for the wedding finery that overflowed the wardrobe and occupied some of the chairs. The bed was not disturbed, and the gas was burning as it was last night. There was not a scrap of paper anywhere to explain the strange absence of the bride; only one thing was certain—that she was gone! Vague fears took possession of the father’s mind: there must have been foul play, for surely no girl in her senses would run away from her own wedding! But what was to be done? Of course there could be no marriage without a bride, and the bridegroom must be warned. Mr. Wythburn tried to control himself, but his face was ghastly and his hands were shaking. His thoughts turned to Margaret Miller: he knew that she would keep her senses and prove reliable, and at that moment she appeared.