At the appointed hour Ratcliff appeared. Mrs. Gentry’s toilet that day was appropriate to the calamitous occasion. She was dressed in a black silk robe intensely flounced, and decorated around the bust with a profluvium of black lace that might have melted the heart of a Border-ruffian. She entered the parlor, tragically shaking out a pocket handkerchief with an edging of black. “O Mr. Ratcliff! Mr. Ratcliff!” she exclaimed, rushing forward, then checking herself melodramatically, and seizing the back of a chair, as if for support. “Well, madam, what’s the matter?” “That heartless,—that ungrateful girl!” “What of her?” Mrs. Gentry answered by applying her handkerchief to her eyes very much as Mrs. Siddons used to do in Belvidera. “Come, madam,” interrupted Ratcliff, “my time is precious. No damned nonsense, if you please. To the point. What has happened?” Rudely shocked into directness by these words, Mrs. Gentry replied: “She has disappeared,—r-r-run away!” “Damnation!” was Ratcliff’s concise and emphatic comment. He started up and paced the room. “This is a damned pretty return for my confidence, madam.” “O, she’ll be come up with,—she’ll be come up with!” sobbed Mrs. Gentry. “Come up with,—where?” “In the next world, if not in this.” “Pooh! When did she disappear?” “Yesterday, while I was waiting for her to go out to buy her new dresses. O the ingratitude!” “Have you made no search for her?” “Yes, I’ve made every possible inquiry. I’ve paid ten dollars to a police-officer to look her up. O the ingratitude of the world! But she’ll be come up with!” “Did you let her know that I was her master?” “Yes, ’t was only yesterday I imparted the information.” “How did she receive it?” “She was a little startled at first, but soon seemed reconciled, even pleased with the idea of her new wardrobe.” “Have you closely questioned your domestics?” “Yes. They know nothing. She must have slipped unobserved out of the house.” “Is there any one among them with whom she was more familiar than with another?” “She used to read the Bible to old Esha, by my direction.” “Call up old Esha. I would like to question her.” Esha soon appeared, her bronzed face glistening with perspiration from the kitchen fire,—the never-failing bright-colored Madras handkerchief on her head. “Esha,” said Mr. Ratcliff, “have you ever seen me before?” “Yes, Massa Ratcliff, of’n. Lib’d on de nex’ plantation to yourn. I ’longed to Massa Peters wunst. But he’m dead and gone.” “Do you know what an oath is, Esha?” “Yes, massa, it’s when one swar he know dis or dunno dat.” “Very well. Do you know what becomes of her who swears falsely?” “O yes, massa; she go to de lake of brimstone and fire, whar’ she hab bad time for eber and eber, Amen.” “Are you a Christian, Esha?” “I’ze notin’ else, Massa Ratcliff.” “Well, Esha, here’s the Holy Bible. Take it in your left hand, kiss the book, and then hold up your right hand.” Esha went through the required form.