ition? The recognition of a man or his garments,
although the result of observation, does not usually carry with it any
consciousness of the details that we have observed; and she did not know
now what it was that had made her think of Toyner so strongly.

The next morning, as the day was beginning to wear on, one of the
Fentown men put his head into Ann's door.

"Do you happen to know where Toyner is?" he asked.

She gave a negative, only to be obliged to repeat it to several
questions in quick succession.

"Seen him this morning?"

"Seen him last night?"

"Happen to know where he would likely be?"

The growing feeling of distress in Ann's mind made the shake of her head
more and more emphatic. She was of course an object of more or less pity
to every one at that time, and the intruder made an explanation that had
some tone of apology.

"Oh, well, I didn't know but as you might have happened to have seen him
since he came back. His boat's there at the landing all right, but his
mother's not seen him up to the house."

During the day Ann heard the same tale in several different forms.
Toyner was one of those quiet men not often in request by his
neighbours; and as he was known at present to have reason possibly for
hidden movements in search of his quarry, there was not that hue and cry
raised concerning the presence of the boat and the absence of the owner
that would have been aroused in the case of some other; still, the
interest in his whereabouts gradually grew, and Ann heard the talk about
it. Within her own heart an unexpressed terror grew stronger and
stronger. It was founded upon the sense of personal responsibility. She
alone knew the secret mission upon which Toyner had left; she alone knew
of the glimpse of her father which she had caught the night before, and
she doubted now whether she had seen a spirit or visible man. What had
happened in the dark hour in which Toyner and Markham had met, and which
of them had brought back the boat? The misery of these questions grew to
be greater than she could endure; but to confide her distress to any one
was impossible. To do so might not only be to put her father's enemies
upon his track, but it would be to confess Bart's unfaithfulness to his
public duty; and in that curious revolution of feeling which so
frequently comes about in hearts where it is least expected, Ann felt
the latter would be the more intolerable woe of the two.

Then came another of tho