“Of medium height, dear, slenderly yet exquisitely formed, with a face of rarest beauty.” “It should be a boy’s face, mamma.” “This one is boyish, Alva, because the sunny hair lies in soft loose rings of short hair all over the pretty head, and the roguish smile, and the dimples, the sea-shell coloring, the marvelous eyes so brightly blue, so innocent--arch--oh, I can not describe them!--go see for yourself.” “I will; and you may expect me to bring her home with me.” She hurried out, ordered the carriage, and within an hour was on her way to the store. Mrs. Beresford turned back with a sigh to her task, and finished the cruel letter that was to carry such pain to her son across the sea. When the bitter task was over she threw herself upon a low divan and wept bitterly a long, long while, almost frightened at what she had done. She feared that she could not mold her son’s will to compliance by harshness as easily as she had done that of his timid sister. “But he will not give up everything--he could not be so rash--for the sake of a fair-faced girl,” she told herself, with faint flickering hope. Several hours later Alva entered the room, still in her rich carriage-dress, her face pale and grave. “Oh, mamma, I have had a great shock,” she sighed. “You did not find Cupid?” “No; she had not come to the store this morning, but they told me where she boarded, and I drove there. Oh, what a terrible story I heard!” “The girl had eloped, perhaps,” smiled the lady. “Worse than that. I’ve often regretted that I didn’t elope myself when I was a girl,” returned Alva, flippantly; then instantly grew serious again as she continued, sadly: “The poor girl, by some strange accident, fell from her window in the fourth story down to the street last evening, and was removed to Bellevue, unconscious, and believed to be dying.” “Oh, how sad, how shocking! and she was _so sweet_!” mused Mrs. Beresford, tenderly. “So I drove to Bellevue, though expecting to find her dead,” went on Alva. “And now, mamma, comes the strangest part of the story--my Cupid had been mysteriously spirited away from the hospital.” CHAPTER XXI. “WHERE IS SHE NOW?” “Alva!” cried Mrs. Beresford, gazing at her daughter in consternation. She grew pale and shuddered as she spoke, for the thought of the lovely girl’s terrible accident touched her deeply. “Is it not a terrible disappointment?” cried Alva. “Perhaps I shall never find her now, and my ‘Cupid’ will never be finished.” “But surely the girl will be found again!” Mrs. Beresford cried, consolingly; but Alva shook her head.