too, just as she did from us. I don't
see why she should have meant them. I don't believe she did. Perhaps
she'll tell us more next time she comes. That'll be tomorrow, most
likely."

I hoped that it might be to-morrow, but I was fearful. The way in which
she had said good-by made me so. Her look, her manner, seemed to imply
more than a good-by for a day. And, though this I did not tell Hephzy,
she had called me "Kent" for the first time since the happy days at the
rectory. I feared--all sorts of things.

She did not come on the morrow, or the following day, or the day after
that. Another week passed and she did not come, nor had we received any
word from her. By that time Hephzy was as anxious and fretful as I.
And, when I proposed going in search of her, Hephzy, for a wonder,
considering how very, very careful she was of my precious health, did
not say no.

"You're pretty close to bein' as well as ever you was, Hosy," she said.
"And I know how terribly worried you are. If you do go out at night
you may be sick again, but if you don't go and lay awake frettin' and
frettin' about her I KNOW you'll be sick. So perhaps you'd better do it.
Shall I--Sha'n't I go with you?"

"I think you had better not," I said.

"Well, perhaps you're right. You never would tell me much about this
opera-house, or whatever 'tis, but I shouldn't wonder if, bein' a
Yankee, I'd guessed considerable. Go, Hosy, and bring her back if you
can. Find her anyhow. There! there run along. The hack's down at the
door waitin'. Is your head feelin' all right? You're sure? And you
haven't any pain? And you'll keep wrapped up? All right? Good-by,
dearie. Hurry back! Do hurry back, for my sake. And I hope--Oh, I do
hope you'll bring no bad news."

L'Abbaye, at eight-thirty in the evening was a deserted place compared
to what it had been when I visited it at midnight. The waiters and
attendants were there, of course, and a few early bird patrons, but not
many. The bearded proprietors, or managers, were flying about, and I
caught one of them in the middle of a flight.

He did not recognize me at first, but when I stated my errand, he did.
Out went his hands and up went his shoulders.

"The Mademoiselle," he said. "Ah, yes! You are her friend, Monsieur; I
remember perfectly. Oh, no, no, no! she is not here any more. She
has left us. She sings no longer at L'Abbaye. We are desolate; we are
inconsolable. We pleaded, but she was firm. She has gone. Where?