It was six o’clock before the first answer came back. It was from Mr. Bruce Deville. I tore it open and read it. “You must be mistaken. Can answer for it she has taken no steps. She is still here. Mr. Ffolliot has not returned. Impossible for them to have met.” The pink paper fluttered to the ground at our feet. I tore open the second one; it was from Olive Berdenstein---- “Do not understand you. I have no intention of breaking our compact.” We read them both over again carefully. Then we looked at one another. “He must have taken fright needlessly,” I said, in a low tone. “You are still certain, then, that it was he?” she asked. “Absolutely!” I answered. “If only we could find him! In a week it will be too late.” “Too late!” she repeated. “What do you mean?” “The ceremony at Eastminster is on Sunday week. He was to have been there at least a week before. I am afraid that he will not go at all now.” “We must act at once,” my mother declared, firmly. “I know exactly where you saw him. I will go there at once.” “We will go there together,” I cried. “I shall be ready in a minute.” She shook her head. “I must go alone,” she said, quietly. “You would only be in the way. I know the neighborhood and the people. They will tell me more if I am alone.” She was away until midnight. When at last she returned I saw at once by her face that she had been unsuccessful. “There is no clue, then?” I asked. She shook her head. “None.” We sat and looked at one another in silence. “To-morrow,” she said, “I will try again.” But to-morrow came and went, and we were still hopelessly in the dark. On the morning of the third day we were in despair. Then, as we sat over our breakfast, almost in despair, a letter was brought to me. It was from Alice, and enclosed in it was one from my father. “You seem,” she wrote, “to have been very anxious about father lately, so I thought you would like to read this letter from him. We are almost straight here now, but it has been very hard work, and I have missed you very much....” There was more of the same sort, but I did not stop to read it. I passed it on to my mother, and eagerly read the few lines from my father. His letter was dated three days ago--the very day of my meeting with him in the Commercial Road, and the postmark was Ventnor. “My dear child,” he commenced, “I am better and shall return for certain on Monday. The air here is delightful, and I have felt myself growing stronger every day. If you see the Bishop tell him that you have heard from me. My love to Kate, if you are writing. I hope that she will be coming down for next week. There is a good deal for me to say to her.--Your affectionate father, Horace Ffolliot.” My mother read both letters, and then looked up at me with a great relief in her face. “After all you see you must have been mistaken,” she exclaimed. “There can be no doubt about it.”