Bessy's heart misgave her as she knocked at the gatekeeper's house; an indefinable dread came over her, and she scarce knew how to state her case. Little did she think that within sound of her voice lay the dear objects of her search; hundreds of feet had passed them during the day, but none had disturbed them; the whistles had screamed for them in vain, for they had gone to that lasting "rest prepared for the weary and heavy laden." From the gatekeeper they learned that the two had arrived too late in the morning and gone away somewhere, but had not returned or been seen afterwards. Bessy stood transfixed for a moment, scarce knowing what to do, but Old Abe could look at the case more calmly; and taking hold of her hand, he led her gently away, and proceeded forthwith to the police station, where he gave as full an account and as correct a description of the missing ones as he was able. It took but a short time to accomplish this much, but the journey homewards was not so speedily performed. Every dark corner was explored, and every alley and by-lane had to be traversed, and the morning was far advanced when they reached home after their unsuccessful search. The husband and babe were still sleeping, for Becca had ministered to all their wants. She had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother for one so sorrowfully placed. Promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate Bessy to her grief. Who shall attempt to describe the anguish of that bereaved parent? Statuelike she sat, nursing a sorrow too deep for tears. Hours passed, and the first faint streak of dawn found her still sitting, with her eyes intently fixed on vacancy. Her husband's voice was the first thing that roused her from the state of despondency into which she had sunk. He spoke with difficulty, and his voice was feeble as a child's. "Bessy," he gasped, "tha munnot leave me ony moor. It's drawin varry near. Awr little Tom an' Susy have been here wol tha's been off; aw heeard 'em calling for me, but aw could'nt goa until aw'd had a word wi' thee. Aw'm feeard tha'll tak it hard, lass, but if tha finds tha cannot bide it, ax th' parson to tell thee what he tell'd to me, an' it'll comfort thee." Bessy was unable to reply. Sorrows had been heaped upon her so heavily that her feelings were benumbed; she scarcely comprehended what was said, but in the bitterness of her soul she fell upon her knees and sobbed--"Lord, help me!" Her husband feebly took her hand and drew her towards him. "He will help thee, lassie, niver fear. One kiss, Bessy; gooid bye! Tom! Susy!--It's varry dark.--Aw think aw want to sleep."-- "And ere that hour departed. All death reveals, he knew." CHAPTER III.