The truth flashed across him before the words were out. Arabella nodded her head, and her brother bowed his in trouble. “Yes, that's bad,” said he, as though nothing else had been. “There's no denying it, that is bad.” It was a thing he could realise; that was why he took it thus disproportionately to heart. “Surely it is all bad together!” said Arabella. John William spent some minutes in a study of the bare boards by his bedside. “Where do you think she went to?” he said at last, looking up. “I have no idea.” “Have you told me all that she said? She didn't—she didn't send any other messages?” It was wistfully asked. “No, none; but she did tell me how she hopes and prays that you will never give her another thought. She declares she has never given a single thought to you. It is true, too, I am sure.” “We shall see—we shall see. So you have no idea where she went? She gave you no hint of any sort or kind?” “None whatever.” “She has gone back to Melbourne, think you?” “I don't know where else she could go to.” “No more do I,” said John William, rising from the bed at last. He opened the window softly and looked out into the night. “No more do I see where else she could go to,” he whispered over again. Then he turned round to Arabella. She was watching him closely. Neither of them spoke. But John William picked his wideawake from off the bed and jammed it over his brows. Then he took a pair of spurs from the drawers-head and dropped them into his coat pocket. Then he faced Arabella afresh. “Do you know what I am going to do?” “I can guess. You are going to ride into Melbourne and look for Missy.” “I am—and now, at once. I'm going out by that window. Don't shut it, because I shall be back before milking, and shall come in the same way I get out.” “But you'll never see her, John William; you'll never see her,” said Arabella in misery. “It'll be like hunting for a needle in a haystack!” “You may always find the needle—there is always a chance. For me, if half of what she told you has a word of truth in it I shall have a better chance by night than by day. It can't be much after eleven now, and I guess I shall do it to-night in half an hour.” “But if you don't see her?” “Then I shall have another try to-morrow night—and another the next—and another the night after that. There are plenty of horses in the paddock; there are some that haven't been ridden this long time, and some that nobody can ride but me. The mare will have to sweat for it to-night, but not after to-night. Only look here. I shall be found out sooner or later, then there will be a row, and you know who'll make it. You'll let it be later, won't you,'.ella, so far as you're concerned?” “You must know that I will!” “Then bless you, my dear, and good night.”