Elsie led the way into the house, and went directly toward the library, leaving wet tracks upon the carpet, and wrapping her dripping garments close about her. The old people and Catharine followed in silence, shuddering with the dampness and chilled with the cold, but carried on by the force of that insane will. Elsie flung open the library-door. A gust of wind swept through, meeting them as they entered from the bay-window, which was open to the night. “Give me light, light! I would look on him; I will tell him myself.” Catharine struck a light, which flared and quivered as she held it upward. Elsie seized it fiercely and held it above her head, looking upward for the picture. It was gone; a stained place upon the paper marked the spot it had occupied, and that was all. The candle dropped from Elsie’s hand, which was still uplifted as if paralyzed. “Gone! Oh, my soul, he has gone with her!” These words were uttered in a feeble, heart-broken voice, and Elsie glided away through the darkness into her chamber. For days and weeks she did not speak again. CHAPTER LIII. COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA. A steamer had just arrived, bringing passengers from the gold regions of California,—a rough, wild-looking set, whose half-savage aspect gave the impression of a gang of returned convicts, rather than of refined and enterprising men, as most of them undoubtedly were. To have seen the coaches and hacks as they gave up their burdens at the various hotels, one would have fancied that the inhabitants of Van Diemen’s land had escaped in battalions, and were about to overrun the country. One of these carriages drew up at the Astor House, and a young man sprang out, carrying a portmanteau, which seemed of considerable weight, in his hand. His appearance was rather picturesque than otherwise, for he was one of these persons whom no disarray of costume could render less than gentlemanly. In fact, a black wide-awake, set carelessly a little on one side of his head, was the most becoming thing in the world, and a Mexican blanket, bought from a fellow-passenger and flung over his arm, gave a brilliant contrast to his gray and travel-soiled clothes. A flowing beard, which no neglect could prevent from rippling downward in rich waves, veiled the lower portion of his face, revealing a finely curved mouth and a set of snowy teeth when he spoke or smiled. A noble and frank face it was, which looked so eagerly from beneath the hat we have mentioned. The young man went directly to the office, registered his name, and inquired, in an anxious voice, if Louis De Marke had left an address there. “Louis De Marke,” was the reply, “is an inmate of the house. He has been in town some months, and is probably in his room, No. ——.”