“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” Harriet returned evasively, but looking rather crest-fallen at having betrayed so much. “It does matter, though, where she is now. I must find her right away. When did she go away from here?” she demanded rising, for she was wild to begin her search for the missing girl. “Let me see,” mused Mrs. Rochester; “I believe it was just four weeks ago yesterday, that——” “Four weeks!” interrupted Harriet scornfully. “Why, I had a letter from her three weeks ago, and she said she’d be at home in about a fortnight, as I told you before.” Mrs. Rochester remembered and had been somewhat upset by the intelligence; still she was bound to stick to her text if possible. “Are you sure the letter was written only three weeks ago?” she inquired, simply to gain time. “Sure, marm; I ain’t likely to make many mistakes about Miss—about Sister Angela,” Harriet replied. “But it certainly was four weeks ago yesterday that she had the attack I spoke of; Dr. Winthrop would himself tell you so, and that she wished to return at once to Paris.” “Well, I’m beat!” Harriet exclaimed in a tremulous voice; “for that letter was certainly written three weeks ago, and it was postmarked from this town.” “Perhaps,” Mrs. Rochester suggested, a bright idea occurring to her, “she was taken worse after leaving here, and was obliged to stop over at the inn or somewhere in the village; then, when she was a little better, she may have written you, but, not wishing to alarm you, told you that she would be home in a couple of weeks; then she may have been taken worse again, and—and perhaps is ill somewhere now.” “No—no, marm, that isn’t like her at all; if she had been sick, she’d have sent for me to come and take care of her,” Harriet returned, tears streaming over her cheeks. “I tell you, marm, it’ll be a sad day for me if anything has happened to her.” Her heart was full of anxiety and fear, and she imagined a hundred ills that might have befallen her dear young lady; but she did not once suspect treachery on the part of any one at the chateau, for she could conceive of no motive that would prompt any one to injure her. Salome had never confided anything of her history, and she did not suppose she had ever met either the Rochesters or the Winthrops before she went to nurse them at the villa. The wily Mrs. Rochester, after suggesting that perhaps Sister Angela had probably succumbed to a sudden and fatal attack of illness, was extremely anxious to get rid of her excitable visitor. She feared that Dr. Winthrop might learn that the devoted and self-sacrificing nun who had nursed him back to life was unaccountably missing. If so, he would certainly spare no efforts to get tidings of her, and, if possible, restore her to the lamenting Harriet. When Harriet Winter left the chateau, it was with the determination to use every means in her power to find her beloved friend.