Where? under what circumstances? Why should no place, no name be mentioned? He dared not ask; he felt he durst not. He glanced furtively at all the faces at table; from Evangeline’s only could he gather aught to satisfy him that there was something unusual and unsatisfactory in the disappearance of Helen. He said to her abruptly, but not austerely-- “A little wine, Evangeline. You do not look well, child.” She turned her large, clear eyes, glittering with tears upon him; he saw her small upper lip quiver, and he perceived that her heart was too full for her to articulate a word, as she returned his salutation. “There is something wrong!--something horrible has happened!” he muttered to himself, and he became almost silent during the remainder of the dinner. When the cloth was cleared, the dessert spread upon the table, and the servants had retired, he asked in a seemingly careless tone-- “How long has Helen been away? With whom is she staying?” Mrs. Grahame’s brow slightly contracted. She produced a small, beautifully finished pocket-book, and opening it, took from it her daughter’s letter, which she handed to her husband. “Miss Grahame’s room was one morning found by her nurse untenanted,” she said; coldly; “that letter was discovered upon her toilette; such explanation as it affords you have equally with myself; I know no more.” Mr. Grahame’s eyes raced down the trembling characters penned by his wretched child; and when he came to the conclusion; he looked up to his wife in bewildered astonishment. “What does all this mean?” he cried; almost fiercely Mrs. Grahame shrugged her shoulders; a low sob burst from Evangeline’s lips. “Mistress Grahame,” he exclaimed; with a strong Scottish accent; an evidence of unusual feeling; “am I to understand that you are unable to offer any further explanation than this miserable epistle affords?” “You are, Mr. Grahame,” replied his wife; with cold sullenness. “Did you make no effort to trace her?” he asked. “None.” “Have you no clue to the place of her flight?” “None.” “You have taken no steps in the matter whatever?” “None.” “Very extraordinary conduct; Mistress Grahame;” he cried; with a brow of crimson--“a very unsatisfactory delay; madam.” She glanced at him with her dull gray eyes. “You are the head of the house; Grahame,” she replied. “You, as such, will take the steps you deem expedient. For myself, I, as a representative of a line whose annals are unstained, will never permit a degenerate child to continue to move in the same circle, or breathe the same air as myself. She has forgotten her position, her dignity, her blood. She has forfeited her claim to her name; and, therefore, with her own hand, has sundered the ties of affinity. In my eyes she is dead.” Again a low cry of acute grief burst from Evangeline.