, one of the neighbors, Mrs. George Crocker,
had read many articles in women's papers relative to the beautifying
of homes, and had furnished a wonderful chamber with old soap-boxes
and rolls of Japanese paper which was a sort of a cousin many times
removed of this. When she was in bed the lady kissed her, and called
her darling, and bade her sleep well, and not be afraid, she was in
the next room, and could hear if she spoke. Then she stood looking
at her, and Ellen thought that she must be younger than Minnie
Swensen, who lived on her street, and wore a yellow pigtail, and
went to the high-school. Then she closed her heavy eyes, and forgot
to cry about her poor father and mother; still, there was, after
all, a hurt about them down in her childish heart, though a great
wave of new circumstances had rolled on her shore and submerged for
the time her memory and her love, even, she was so feeble and young.

She slept very soundly, and awoke only once, about two o'clock in
the morning. Then a passing lantern flashed into the chamber into
her eyes, and woke her up, but she only sighed and stretched
drowsily, then turned her little body over with a luxurious roll and
went to sleep again.

It was poor Andrew Brewster's lantern which flashed in her eyes, for
he was out with a posse of police and sympathizing neighbors and
friends searching for his lost little girl. He was frantic, and when
he came under the gas-lights from time to time the men that saw him
shuddered; they would not have known him, for almost the farthest
agony of which he was capable had changed his face.

Chapter III

By the next morning all the city was in a commotion over little
Ellen's disappearance. Woods on the outskirts were being searched,
ponds were being dragged, posters with a stare of dreadful meaning
in large characters of black and white were being pasted all over
the fences and available barns, and already three of the local
editors had been to the Brewster house to obtain particulars and
photographs of the missing child for reproduction in the city
papers.

The first train from Boston brought two reporters representing great
dailies.

Fanny Brewster, white-cheeked, with the rasped redness of tears
around her eyes and mouth, clad in her blue calico wrapper, received
them in her best parlor. Eva had made a fire in the best parlor
stove early that morning. "Folks will be comin' in all day, I
expect," said she, speaking with nervou