fortunes of those who composed this strange
family, related only through its disasters, hardly served for the
excitement and talk of a single day. Now that the June days were at
their longest, the old people were sure to wake earlier than ever; but
one morning, to the astonishment of every one, Betsey Lane's bed was
empty; the sheets and blankets, which were her own, and guarded with
jealous care, were carefully folded and placed on a chair not too near
the window, and Betsey had flown. Nobody had heard her go down the
creaking stairs. The kitchen door was unlocked, and the old watchdog
lay on the step outside in the early sunshine, wagging his tail and
looking wise, as if he were left on guard and meant to keep the
fugitive's secret.

"Never knowed her to do nothin' afore 'thout talking it over a
fortnight, and paradin' off when we could all see her," ventured a
spiteful voice. "Guess we can wait till night to hear 'bout it."

Mrs. Dow looked sorrowful and shook her head. "Betsey had an aunt on
her mother's side that went and drownded of herself; she was a
pritty-appearing woman as ever you see."

"Perhaps she's gone to spend the day with Decker's folks," suggested
Peggy Bond. "She always takes an extra early start; she was speakin'
lately o' going up their way;" but Mrs. Dow shook her head with a most
melancholy look. "I'm impressed that something's befell her," she
insisted. "I heard her a-groanin' in her sleep. I was wakeful the
forepart o' the night,--'tis very unusual with me, too."

"'Twa'n't like Betsey not to leave us any word," said the other old
friend, with more resentment than melancholy. They sat together almost
in silence that morning in the shed chamber. Mrs. Dow was sorting and
cutting rags, and Peggy braided them into long ropes, to be made into
mats at a later date. If they had only known where Betsey Lane had
gone, they might have talked about it until dinner-time at noon; but
failing this new subject, they could take no interest in any of their
old ones. Out in the field the corn was well up, and the men were
hoeing. It was a hot morning in the shed chamber, and the woolen rags
were dusty and hot to handle.

V.

Byfleet people knew each other well, and when this mysteriously absent
person did not return to the town-farm at the end of a week, public
interest became much excited; and presently it was ascertained that
Betsey Lane was neither making a visit to her friends the Deckers on
Birch