“No, sir. That was the last!” “That was the last you saw of her, Tom?” “Well, sir, I saw nothin’ more.” “And so she went out of sight!” “Clean gone, that she were, sir.” “Why did they take her away? what have they done with her? where have they taken her to?” These red-hot questionings were addressed to the universal heaven rather than to Tom. “Why didn’t she write?” they were resumed. “Why did she leave? She’s mine. She belongs to me! Who dared take her away? Why did she leave without writing?—Tom!” “Yes, sir,” said the well-drilled recruit, dressing himself up to the word of command. He expected a variation of the theme from the change of tone with which his name had been pronounced, but it was again, “Where have they taken her to?” and this was even more perplexing to Tom than his hard sum in arithmetic had been. He could only draw down the corners of his mouth hard, and glance up queerly. “She had been crying—you saw that, Tom?” “No mistake about that, Mr. Richard. Cryin’ all night and all day, I sh’d say.” “And she was crying when you saw her?” “She look’d as if she’d just done for a moment, sir.” “But her face was white?” “White as a sheet.” Richard paused to discover whether his instinct had caught a new view from these facts. He was in a cage, always knocking against the same bars, fly as he might. Her tears were the stars in his black night. He clung to them as golden orbs. Inexplicable as they were, they were at least pledges of love. The hues of sunset had left the West. No light was there but the steadfast pale eye of twilight. Thither he was drawn. He mounted Cassandra, saying: “Tell them something, Tom. I shan’t be home to dinner,” and rode off toward the forsaken home of light over Belthorpe, whereat he saw the wan hand of his Lucy, waving farewell, receding as he advanced. His jewel was stolen,—he must gaze upon the empty box. CHAPTER XXIII