One quaint little drawer was open, and the white-haired old man was poring over some simple treasures he had taken from it--simple treasures, yet dearer to his heart than gold or precious stones--a few old photographs, an old-fashioned ambrotype in an ebony case, a thin, gold ring and some locks of hair. Upon this sad and touching picture of memory and tenderness old Dinah's grotesque figure broke startlingly. "Ole massa! ole massa!" she cried, wildly, "has you seen little missie? Is she here with you?" The old man swept his treasures off his knees into the quaint cabinet and looked at his old servant in amazement. "Dinah, what does this startling intrusion mean?" he inquired, pushing his spectacles off his brow and regarding her with a mild frown. "Little Golden is missing. She hab runned away from us, ole massa!" shouted Dinah, desperately. "Dinah, you must be crazy," repeated Mr. Glenalvan, blankly. "It's de Lard's truth, ole massa. She hab done followed in her mudder's footsteps! Dat han'some man ober at John Glenalvan's has been and gone and 'ticed our Golden from us," wailed the old negress, in despair. CHAPTER IX. It was not long before Mr. Glenalvan had heard the whole of Golden's simple love-story from his servant. They were filled with horror and grief at its too probable termination. "Dinah, it may be that she has stolen out into the grounds for a walk in the fresh air. She was growing very restless with the close, indoor confinement. Have you thought of that?" he said, hoping feebly against hope. "Shall I go out and look for her, den, ole massa?" said Dinah, in a tone that plainly betrayed her hopelessness. "Let us both go," said old Hugh. They sallied forth anxiously into the brilliant moonlight that lay in silvery brightness all over the sweet, southern landscape--old Hugh, bareheaded, in his tattered dressing-gown, old Dinah in her short night-dress, too ridiculous a figure for anyone to contemplate without inward mirth. It so happened that Elinor, whom the hard exigencies of poverty compelled to be her own dressmaker, had sat up late that night to complete some alterations in a dress in which she had intended to array her fair self for the morrow. Having stitched on the last bit of lace, she went to the window and leaned out to cool her heated brow. "My head aches, and I am almost melted with sewing by that hot lamp," she said to herself, fretfully. "How I hate this poverty that grinds one down so! When once I am married to Bertram Chesleigh I will never touch a needle again! I will order all my dresses of Worth, of Paris. And I _will_ marry Bertram Chesleigh! I swear it; and woe be to anyone that tries to prevent me!" Her dark eyes flashed luridly a moment, and her white hand was angrily clenched. She was thinking of Clare, who had persisted in rivaling her with Mr. Chesleigh. At that moment the subdued murmur of voices floated up to her window from the lawn.