he had never done in the thirty years of their married
life. Amasy's hardness was a thing no longer to be condoned.

Furthermore, when the clock had struck eleven and then twelve, and yet
no sign of David or Anna, the Squire had reached for his fur cap and
announced his intention of "going to look for 'em." But like the
proverbial worm, the wife of his bosom had turned, and with all the
determination of a white rabbit she announced:

"If I was you, Amasy, I'd stay to hum; seems as if you had made almost
enough trouble for one day." With the old habit of authority, strong
as ever, he looked at the worm, but there was a light in its eyes that
warned him as a danger signal.

They were alone together, the Squire and his wife, and each was alone
in sorrow, the yoke of severity she had bowed beneath for thirty years
uncomplainingly galled to-night. It had sent her boy out into the
storm--perhaps to his death. There was little love in her heart for
Amasy.

He tried to think that he had only done his duty, that David and Anna
would come back, and that, in the meantime, Louisa was less a comfort
to him, in his trouble, than she had ever been before. It was, of
course, his trouble; it never occurred to him that Louisa's heart might
have been breaking on its own account.

The Squire found that duty was a cold comforter as the wretched hours
wore on.

Sanderson had slunk from the house without a word immediately after
Anna's departure. In the general upheaval no one missed him, and when
they did it was too late for them to enjoy the comfort of shifting the
blame to his guilty shoulders.

The professor followed Kate with the mute sympathy of a faithful dog;
he did not dare attempt to comfort her. The sight of a woman in tears
unnerved him; he would not have dared to intrude on her grief; he could
only wait patiently for some circumstance to arise in which he could be
of assistance. In the meantime he did the only practical thing within
his power--he went about from time to time, poked the fires and put on
coal.

Marthy would have liked to discuss the iniquity of Lennox Sanderson
with any one--it was a subject on which she could have spent hours--but
no one seemed inclined to divert Marthy conversationally. In fact, her
popularity was not greater that night in the household than that of the
Squire. She spent her time in running from room to room, exclaiming
hysterically:

"Land sakes! Ain't it dreadful?"

Th