“You do solemnly swear, as you hope to be saved from the torments of hell through all eternity, that you will truly answer, to the best of your knowledge and belief, the questions I may put to you. And if you lie, may the Lord strike you dead. Now kiss the book again, to show you take the oath.” Esha kissed the book, and returned it to the table. “Now, then, do you know anything of the disappearance of this girl, Ellen Murray?” “Nuffin, massa, nuffin at all.” “Did she ever tell you she meant to leave this house?” “Nebber, massa! She nebber tell me any sich ting.” “Did she have any talk with you yesterday?” “Not a bressed word did dat chile say to me ’cep ter scole me ’cause I didn’t do up her Organdy muslin nice as she ’spected. De little hateful she-debble! How can dis ole nig do eb’ry ting all at wunst, and do’t well, should like ter know? It’s cook an’ wash an’ iron, an’ iron an’ wash an’—” “There! That will do, Esha. You can go.” “Yes, Massa Ratcliff.” Stealing into the next room, Esha listened at the folding-doors. “She knows nothing,—that’s very clear,” said Ratcliff. He went to the window, and looked out in silence a full minute; then, coming back, added: “Stop snivelling, madam. I’m not a fool. I’ve seen women before now. This girl must be found,—found if it costs me ten thousand dollars. And you must aid in the search. If I find her,—well and good. If I don’t find her, you shall suffer for it. This is what I mean to do: I shall have copies of her photograph put in the hands of the best detectives in the city. I shall pay them well in advance, and promise five hundred dollars to the one that finds her. They’ll come to you. You must give them all the information you can, and lend them your servants to identify the girl. This old Esha plainly has a grudge against her, and may be made useful in hunting her up. Let her go out daily for that purpose. Tell all your pupils to be on the watch. I’ll break up your school if she isn’t found. Do you understand?” “I’ll do all I can, sir, to have her caught.” “That will be your most prudent course, madam.” And Ratcliff, with more exasperation in his face than his words had expressed, quitted the house. “The brute!” muttered Mrs. Gentry, as through the blinds she saw him enter his barouche, and drive off. “He treated me as if I’d been a drab. But he’ll be come up with,—he will!” Esha crept down into the kitchen, with thoughts intent on what she had heard. CHAPTER XXII. THE YOUNG LADY WITH A CARPET-BAG. “Pain has its own noble joy when it kindles a consciousness of life, before stagnant and torpid.”—_John Sterling._ Children are quick to detect flaws in the genealogy of their associates. School-girls are quite as exclusive in their notions as our grown-up leaders of society. Woe to the candidate for companionship on whose domestic record there hangs a doubt!