What had become of the child was a complete mystery! Every house of the Broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken Maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. Telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of passengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who passed through his gate. No one at home said a word of blame to Gertrude. There was no need. They had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little Maud's high chair, while Gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs. "Don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "Don't cry so, poor old girl. God knows where she is and He'll take care of her. I keep on saying that to myself, for I know He will." "If only I had told them all about Cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude. And Conway could not answer. He only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother. The days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of Maud. The Broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till Maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured Maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. Truly it was worse than death. Gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning. When Jerry died, it had not been like this. They wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. He was safe. It was the uncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings, her associates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day. Yet God knew. The only comfort they had, came to them in that thought. Their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. Special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as Maud had been.