"Oh, good Lord! No; she ain't there," cried the frightened witness, half inaudible with her chattering teeth. "Or to Mrs. Hastings at the farm. Susan knows what friends I can trust her to. Arthur, dear, let us go to bed. It's uncomfortable, but you won't mind for one night," said the widow, with a gasp, rising up and sitting down again. She dared not trust herself to hear any explanation, yet all the time fixed with devouring eyes upon the face of the woman whom she would not suffer to speak. "Mother, for Heaven's sake let us understand it; let her speak--let us know. Where has Susan gone? Speak out; never mind interruptions. Where is my sister?" cried Vincent, grasping the terrified woman by the arm. "Oh Lord! If the missis wouldn't look at me like that! I ain't to blame!" cried Williams, piteously. "It was the day afore yesterday as the ladies came. I come up to help Mary with the beds. There was the old lady as had on a brown bonnet and the young miss in the blue veil----" Vincent uttered a sudden exclamation, and looked at his mother; but she would not meet his eyes--would not acknowledge any recognition of that fatal piece of gauze. She gave a little gasp, sitting bolt upright, holding fast by the back of a chair, but kept her eyes steadily and sternly upon the woman's face. "We tidied the best room for the lady, and Miss Susan's little closet; and Mary had out the best sheets, for she says----" "Mary--where's Mary?" cried Mrs. Vincent, suddenly. "I know no more nor a babe," cried Williams, wringing her hands. "She's along with Miss Susan--wherever that may be--and the one in the blue veil." "Go on, go on!" cried Vincent. But his mother did not echo his cry. Her strained hand fell upon her lap with a certain relaxation and relief; her gaze grew less rigid; incomprehensible moisture came to her eyes. "Oh, Arthur, there's comfort in it!" said Mrs. Vincent, looking like herself again. "She's taken Mary, God bless her! she's known what she was doing. Now I'm more easy; Williams, you can sit down and tell us the rest." "Go on!" cried Vincent, fiercely. "Good heavens! what good can a blundering country girl do here?--go on." The women thought otherwise; they exchanged looks of sympathy and thankfulness; they excited the impatient young man beside them, who thought he knew the world, into the wildest exasperation by that pause of theirs. His mother even loosed her bonnet off her aching head, and ventured to lean back under the influence of that visionary consolation; while Vincent, aggravated to the intolerable pitch, sprang up, and, once more seizing Williams by the arm, shook her unawares in the violence of his anxiety. "Answer me!" cried the young man; "you tell us everything but the most important of all. Besides this girl--and Mary--who was with my sister when she went away?"