ked in a furtive, questioning
way, in her turn, upon the nurse.

"It's dreadful close here,--I'm 'most smothered," Nurse Byloe said; and,
putting her hand to her throat, unclasped the catch of the necklace of
gold beads she had worn since she was a baby,--a bead having been added
from time to time as she thickened. It lay in a deep groove of her large
neck, and had not troubled her in breathing before, since the day when
her husband was run over by an ox-team.

At this moment Miss Silence Withers entered, followed by Bathsheba
Stoker, daughter of Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker.

She was the friend of Myrtle, and had come to comfort Miss Silence, and
consult with her as to what further search they should institute. The
two, Myrtle's aunt and her friend, were as unlike as they could well be.
Silence Withers was something more than forty years old, a shadowy,
pinched, sallow, dispirited, bloodless woman, with the habitual look of
the people in the funeral carriage which follows next to the hearse, and
the tone in speaking that may be noticed in a household where one of its
members is lying white and still in a cool, darkened chamber overhead.
Bathsheba Stoker was not called handsome; but she had her mother's
youthful smile, which was so fresh and full of sweetness that she seemed
like a beauty while she was speaking or listening; and she could never be
plain so long as any expression gave life to her features. In perfect
repose, her face, a little prematurely touched by sad experiences,--for
she was but seventeen years old,--had the character and decision stamped
in its outlines which any young man who wanted a companion to warn, to
comfort, and command him, might have depended on as warranting the
courage, the sympathy, and the sense demanded for such a responsibility.
She had been trying her powers of consolation on Miss Silence. It was a
sudden freak of Myrtle's. She had gone off on some foolish but innocent
excursion. Besides, she was a girl that would take care of herself; for
she was afraid of nothing, and nimbler than any boy of her age, and
almost as strong as any. As for thinking any bad thoughts about her,
that was a shame; she cared for none of the young fellows that were round
her. Cyprian Eveleth was the one she thought most of; but Cyprian was as
true as his sister Olive, and who else was there?

To all this Miss Silence answered only by sighing and moaning, For two
whole days she had been kept in const