The father stared blankly at his son-in-law. Swann repeated his statement. "What!" All at once Mr. Maynard sank helplessly into his chair. In that moment certainty made him an old broken man. "She's gone!" said Swann, in a shaken voice. "She has run off from me. I knew she would; I knew she'd do something. I've never been able to kiss her--only last night we quarreled about it. I tell you it's--" "Pray do not get excited," interrupted Mr. Maynard, bracing up. "I'm sure you exaggerate. Tell me what you know." "I went to her room an hour, two hours ago, and knocked. She was there but refused me admittance. She spoke sharply--as if--as if she was afraid. I went and knocked again long after. She didn't answer. I knocked again and again. Then I tried her door. It was not locked. I opened it. She was not in the room. I waited, but she didn't come. I--I am afraid something is--wrong." "She might be with her mother," faltered Mr. Maynard. "No, I'm sure not," asserted Swann. "Not to-night of all nights. Margaret has grown--somewhat cold toward her mother. Besides Mrs. Maynard retired hours ago." The father and the husband stole noiselessly up the stairs and entered Margaret's room. The light was turned on full. The room was somewhat disordered; bridal finery lay littered about; a rug was crumpled; a wicker basket overturned. The father's instinct was true. His first move was to open the door leading out upon the balcony. In the thin snow drifted upon this porch were the imprints of little feet. Something gleamed pale blue in the light of the open door. Mr. Maynard picked it up, and with a sigh that was a groan held it out to Swann. It was a blue satin slipper. "Heavens!" exclaimed Swann. "She's run out in the snow--she might as well be barefooted." "S-sh-h!" warned Mr. Maynard. Unhappy and excited as he was he did not forget Mrs. Maynard. "Let us not alarm any one." "There! See, her footsteps down the stairs," whispered Swann. "I can see them clear to the ground." "You stay here, Swann, so in case Mrs. Maynard or the servants awake you can prevent alarm. We must think of that. I'll bring her back." Mr. Maynard descended the narrow stairway to the lower porch and went out into the yard. The storm had ceased. A few inches of snow had fallen and in places was deeper in drifts. The moon was out and shone down on a white world. It was cold and quiet. When Mr. Maynard had trailed the footsteps across his wide lawn and saw them lead out into the street toward the park, he fell against a tree, unable, for a moment, to command himself. Hope he had none left, nor a doubt. On the other side of the park, hardly a quarter of a mile away, was the river. Margaret had gone straight toward it.