The next morning Ralph was up early, almost as soon as it was light, and back in the neighbourhood of Becket Weir; and there, all alone in the freshness of the early day, he hunted this way and that, far more carefully than he had done the previous evening, but with as little success. There was not a trace of the pocket-book, but--he paused, his nerves tingling--some one had driven along the towing-path. The tracks were perfectly plain upon the dew-damp earth; and the tracks were those of a light cart which was drawn by a horse lame in its left fore foot--the same tracks which he connected with his father's fate, and which he had not seen for some time now! He stood looking round. It was Sunday--the day of peace and rest and gentle thoughts, and yet for the moment his heart filled with hard ones. He must follow these tracks! They might not lead to the recovery of his father--alas! he could not but believe now that father was dead--but they would lead to the man who had killed him; and then--then---- Sweet and low the bells came from the distant church, ringing for the first early morning service. They seemed to whisper messages to Ralph; but for once he turned a deaf ear to their voices. He must follow these tracks, Sunday or no Sunday. Along the path he went, his eyes fixed on the ground--past the roaring, tumbling weir, and the marks grew clearer. Hope rose in his excited heart. This was more in accordance with his tastes and desires. It was like being back on the long, rolling prairies. He would find out the truth now--at least, he would find out who this man was who drove a lame horse! Vain hopes, vain thoughts! Clear and unbroken, the marks ran until the towing-path turned out on the main road just by Becket Bridge, and there, on the hard, stony road, all tracks were lost. It was failure again; and a sudden rush of sorrow came to Ralph, a sudden sense of disappointment and loneliness; and sitting down there on the stone coping of the wall that separated the road from the river, Ralph Rexworth burst into tears. He could not help it--he felt so very depressed and weary; and not even the thoughts of Mr. St. Clive and Irene could drive that depression away. But still the bells rang, and their sweet voices thrust themselves upon him. I am not sure that a good cry is not a good thing sometimes, even for a boy. He felt all the better now, and he thrust back his weakness and squared his shoulders, turning once more for the house, lest his absence, being noticed, the family might wonder what had become of him.