o use talkin' about it now, anyhow.
It jist makes you feel worse. I tell you," she said, suddenly rising,
"let's go over to my place, an' I'll get you a drink o' my last year's
alderberry wine. The doctor's away, an' nobody'll see."

Elsie acquiesced, glad to second anything that would distract
Arabella's mind from her fears. She would go in with them for a few
minutes, and then slip away before Dr. Allen came back.

"No sign o' Davy," sighed Mrs. Munn, as they entered the dark and
deserted house. "Well, I s'pose it's no use talkin' to boys, talkin'
only makes things worse. Come in, an' I'll get a light."

She groped her way through the parlor, and lit the lamp that stood on a
yellow crocheted mat in the middle of the table. "Now, we'll go an'
have a drink o' that alderberry," she said cheerfully.

Miss Arabella touched Elsie's arm timidly, "Couldn't we have jist one
more look at the dress, first?" she whispered. "I feel as if the sight
of it would do me more good than a dose o' medicine. I know I'm an
awful goose, Harriet," she faltered.

Mrs. Munn smiled indulgently. "Come along," she said, "we'll go right
up now, an' you can slip it home in the dark, an' it'll be ready for
to-morrow."

She led the way upstairs, and along the creaking floor to the back
hall. As she opened the door of the lumber room a little breeze,
bearing the scent of lavender and mint, met them, and made the lamp
flare.

"Goodness me!" said Mrs. Munn in surprise, "how on earth did that
window come to be opened?"

Miss Arabella uttered a cry. She clutched Elsie's arm and pointed to
the wall. Mrs. Munn set the lamp down upon the bare pine table and
stared. There was the hook where the dress had so lately hung, in its
winding-sheet; there on the floor were great muddy tracks across to it
from the doorway, and where--oh, where---- The three women turned and
looked at each other in speechless dismay. The room was empty; the
wedding gown had eloped!

CHAPTER XVI

THE CALL OF THE BANSHEE

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
--JEAN BLEWETT.

By the time Gilbert had attended to his patients, and was returning
along the old corduroy road, the night had long fallen. The bird
chorus of the swamp had died away, and only the sweet note of the
little screech-owl awoke the ec