."

"Yes, sir; very well, sir. Hit's all growing quite cold, sir," says
William; and he went away.

He come back in a few minutes and stood in the door and said his Ahum!
like he always did, and the old man turned to him.

"Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Wright's mide says Miss Wright 'as not come
in."

"Not come in! What do you mean?"

"She's not in her room, sir. The mide thinks she's not been in her room
during the night."

"What's that? What's that?" says he. "Curly, didn't you just now say
she was here? Wasn't you up after I was?"

"I seen her around midnight," says I--"maybe later; I don't know. I
thought she went to bed. I never did hear her go out. She couldn't of
gone out--I'd of heard her."

"You'd of heard her! With you in bed yourself? What do you mean?"

The old man turned to me now and seen my face. He come close up to me.

"Where was you?" says he. "What do you mean?"

"Colonel," says I, "she was here after midnight. I ain't been to bed at
all tonight."

"What did she say to you? Why didn't you go to bed? Where is she? What
have you done?"

"I ain't done nothing," says I. "I've been trying to talk to you for
days, and I couldn't. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to
interfere in any girl's business and this shore is hers."

"It's hers?" says he, cold and hard. "I'm in this too. There's something
in here that's got to come out. Come!" says he.

He motioned to me and I followed him up the staircase to the part of the
house that was Bonnie Bell's--the second story and on the corner toward
the lake. She had a fine, big bedroom, with wide windows, all the wood
in white, and all the silks a sort of pale green.

We walked into the room; and he didn't knock. The room was empty! Her
bed hadn't been slept in. On a chair, smoothed out, was her pale blue
dress, which I remembered.

"That's the one she wore last," says I, pointing to it. "She's changed
it."

"She's--she's gone!" says her pa. "Gone--without asking me--without
telling me! Where's she gone? Tell me, Curly. Has--has anybody---- My
girl--where is she? Tell me!"

He had hold of my shoulders then and shook me; and I ain't no chicken
neither.

I got a look at the bed then, and there was something on the pillow. I
showed it to him. It was a letter.

If you've ever seen a man shot, you know how it gets him. He'll stand
for a time like he ain't hurt so bad. Then his face'll pucker,
surprised, and he'll begin to crumble down slow. Th