When she reached the lodge the scene of confusion that met her eyes nearly transfixed her. Both doors, front and back, were wide open, and the air was rushing through the room. The fire had gone out; the great logs of wood had burned in two and fallen apart, and the charred and blackened ends were sticking up. The candle had expired in melted grease, which was now spread, cold, all over the candlestick, and down upon the nice white-oak table. The bed had not been slept in, for there it was perfectly smooth as Miss Joe had left it, with her own peculiar folds and twists about it. And there lay the baby in the cradle, screaming its little life away. “In the name o’ God A’mighty, Pont, what has been a-happening?” asked Miss Joe, lifting up the child, and sinking with it into a chair, pale as death. Pontius Pilate stood there with the screeching and struggling turkey in one hand and the bundle of groceries in the other—looking like a statue of dismay, carved in ebony. “In the name of Heaven, Pont, what has been a-takin’ place?” repeated Miss Joe. “Gor A’mighty knows, mist’ess; but I does werily b’lieve how de Britishers is been landen’ ag’in, or else Bonnypart. Chris’ de Lor’ be praised, ole mist’, dat I an’ you wa’nt home when dey come. See, now, how ebery ting turn out for de bes’. S’pose dat snowstorm hadn’t a come up, where you an’ I been? Good Lor’! poor Miss Aggy! Wonder what’s come o’ her?” “Yes, what, my Lord! Pont,” said Miss Joe, who never in any emergency was known to neglect the plain practical duty of the moment, “go and get the tinderbox, and light a fire quickly, and heat some milk and water for this child. He is almost frozen and almost starved.” And Pontius Pilate put down his burdens and did as he was bid. And Miss Joe made the infant perfectly comfortable, and put him to sleep, before she joined Pont in his vain search around the island for Agnes, or some clew to her fate. When she ascertained that Agnes was certainly not on the island, she dispatched Pontius Pilate to the mainland to rouse up the people of Huttontown to prosecute the search. And the people were aroused indeed to a state of nine days’ wonder. What could have become of her? How could she have left her sea-girt isle without a boat? Would she have forsaken her child at all? No; Miss Joe was certain she would not; she was too fond of him. Had she possibly drowned herself? No; Miss Joe was sure not; she was too much afraid of dying and leaving her babe. Had she been carried off, then? and by whom?