"She's gone!" she gasped, as Wardwell jumped from the floor and hurried to her. "I can almost see it! It almost seems that I did see it," she went on, fighting with herself to tell a plain story. "The apple woman at the corner saw her fall. Her head struck on the curb. The apple woman ran to her. But she got to her feet and walked away without looking back. "Right past her own doorway she went, without looking up--the apple woman saw her--and straight over toward Broadway. "I ran all the way, asking, begging people to say they'd seen her. But not one would say it!" "But," said Wardwell, "it doesn't prove anything. She was a little dazed. She didn't want to come in to frighten you. She just walked around a little and went, maybe, to a doctor. That's what she'd do, can't you see?" "I wish I could, Jimmie. But it isn't what she'd do at all. She'd just walk quietly into the house, and I'd never know that anything had happened. "I'm going out again! I can't stay, she may be wandering farther and farther from me every minute!" There was a fierce, mothering eagerness in the girl's voice, as though she already saw the tragedy of the months to come, and had already taken up the burden of being mother to her mother. Wardwell laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, saying: "I think you could better let me go. I can go farther than you." "She went toward Broadway," the girl said slowly. "But it's no use trying to save me that way. I must find her _myself_. I _know_ that." Jimmie had already pushed past her through the door and started for the stairs. He saw that she was in such a state that unless she saw someone doing something she would herself start out again. "Thank you," she said simply. "But I cannot promise to stay in." "I think you must. You know we're both foolish. We don't either of us really believe that anything's happened to her. But you must stay in. She's sure to come in any minute." Arguing her into a kind of silent promise that she would not go out and would not worry, Wardwell left the house and started east through Eighteenth Street. In the open, quiet street, away from the urge of Augusta's excitement, Wardwell felt entirely foolish. He expected to see the strong-willed, self-reliant woman who was Augusta's mother coming along the street at any moment, and he wondered what he should say to her. Nothing ever did happen, anyway. Rose Wilding had just walked into a drug store or a doctor's, maybe, and had had to wait. That was it, of course. He walked toward Broadway, taking, without any conscious notion of following a trace, the direction which the old apple woman had given.