She ran down the flight of stairs, looked first into the piano-room, then into the parlor opposite. Both places were deserted, and the instruments closed. The front door was bolted, and the master had evidently retired. She went back to the guest-chamber. The child still slept, and Margery held every nerve in suspense, but there was not the least sound. She stepped to the window, pushed up the sash, then leaned out and listened. The night was perfectly calm. What gentle breeze there had been two hours before had died away and left a profound silence unbroken even by the chirp of an insect. She closed the shutter, went back to the bedside again for an instant; then, saying quietly to herself, “It must have been mere fancy,” passed out to her own room, and left the door partially open between the two apartments. II. So the little Alice had found a home. All the people in Pickaway expressed their utter surprise at this unexpected generosity of the penurious music-master. He certainly was about the last person in the town from whom such an act might have been anticipated. Indeed, it was little short of an enigma to the place. But their astonishment knew no bounds when, within a few days after he had taken the little girl, he quietly dismissed all his pupils, and steadily refused to give any more lessons to a single soul. Nothing could prevail upon him, no entreaties whatever could persuade him, and he could never be induced to offer the least explanation. Some of the wealthier ones, unwilling to give him up, had voluntarily proposed to pay double the former price, but even money, which all the village had thought the god of his life, failed to move him from his determination. He was inexorable. Every body wondered what might be the reason. No person could discover any apparent cause why he should so suddenly give up teaching. They inquired about his health. It was very good, he said. Did he expect to leave home? No. He would continue to play the church-organ? Yes, oh, yes; he had no intention of stopping that. So they conjectured until tired of the task, while Franz Erckman paid no attention. However, as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, all the village saw that a change had come over the organist. He was less communicative than formerly, and more severely reserved. From the borders of the creek the fringe of scarlet flowers had vanished. The myriad leaves had lost their rainbowed glory, and dropped, one after another, in russet tatters to the ground. The woodbine had thrown off its vermilion raiment, and now stretched up unclothed its weird and snake-like arms. The group of maples had laid down its golden crown; the hills, too, had cast aside their tiara of brilliant emerald. The Summer and Fall, in all their emblazoned splendor, had passed by, and the gorgeous livery of Autumn faded to the grizzled hues of Winter.