the portico
stopped and looked at him curiously. Finally, he thought he heard some
one in the snow. He turned as a man came around the house. It was the
old coachman and factotum. He seemed glad enough to see Keith, and Keith
was, at least, glad to see him.

"It's a bad business, it is, Mr. Kathe," he said sadly.

"Yes, it is, John. Where is Miss Huntington?"

"Gone, sir," said John, with surprise in his voice that Keith should not
know.

"Gone where?"

"An' that no one knows," said John.

"What! What do you mean?"

"Just that, sir," said the old fellow. "She went away two days after the
funeral, an' not a worrd of her since."

"But she's at some relative's?" said Keith, seeking information at the
same time he gave it.

"No, sir; not a relative in the world she has, except Mr. Wentworth in
New York, and she has not been there."

Keith learned, in the conversation which followed, that Miss Abigail had
died very suddenly, and that two days after the funeral Miss Lois had
had the house shut up, and taking only a small trunk, had left by train
for New York. They had expected to hear from her, though she had said
they would not do so for some time; and when no letter had come they had
sent to New York, but had failed to find her. This all seemed natural
enough. Lois was abundantly able to take care of herself, and, no doubt,
desired for the present to be in some place of retirement. Keith
decided, therefore, that he would simply go to the city and ascertain
where she was. He thought of going to see Dr. Locaman, but something
restrained him. The snow was deep, and he was anxious to find Lois; so
he went straight down to the city that evening. The next day he
discovered that it was not quite so easy to find one who wished to be
lost. Norman knew nothing of her.

Norman and his wife were now living with old Mrs. Wentworth, and they
had all invited her to come to them; but she had declined. Keith was
much disturbed.

Lois, however, was nearer than Keith dreamed.

Her aunt's death had stricken Lois deeply. She could not bear to go to
New York. It stood to her only for hardness and isolation.

Just then a letter came from Dr. Balsam. She must come to him, he said.
He was sick, or he would come for her. An impulse seized her to go to
him. She would go back to the scenes of her childhood: the memories of
her father drew her; the memory also of her aunt in some way urged her.
Dr. Balsam appeared just then nearer to