sement in the paper brought the village
fever of the last two days to its height. Myrtle Hazard's disappearance
had been pretty well talked round through the immediate neighborhood,
but now that forty-eight hours of search and inquiry had not found her,
and the alarm was so great that the young girl's friends were willing
to advertise her in a public journal, it was clear that the gravest
apprehensions were felt and justified. The paper carried the tidings to
many who had not heard it. Some of the farmers who had been busy all
the week with their fields came into the village in their wagons on
Saturday, and there first learned the news, and saw the paper, and the
placards which were posted up, and listened, open-mouthed, to the whole
story.

Saturday was therefore a day of much agitation in Oxbow Village, and
some stir in the neighboring settlements. Of course there was a great
variety of comment, its character depending very much on the sense,
knowledge, and disposition of the citizens, gossips, and young people
who talked over the painful and mysterious occurrence.

The Withers Homestead was naturally the chief centre of interest. Nurse
Byloe, an ancient and voluminous woman, who had known the girl when she
was a little bright-eyed child, handed over "the baby" she was holding
to another attendant, and got on her things to go straight up to The
Poplars. She had been holding "the baby" these forty years and more,
but somehow it never got to be more than a month or six weeks old. She
reached The Poplars after much toil and travail. Mistress Fagan, Irish,
house-servant, opened the door, at which Nurse Byloe knocked softly, as
she was in the habit of doing at the doors of those who sent for her.

"Have you heerd anything yet, Kitty Fagan?" asked Nurse Byloe.

"Niver a blissed word," said she. "Miss Withers is upstairs with Miss
Bathsheby, a cryin' and a lamentin'. Miss Badlam's in the parlor. The
men has been draggin' the pond. They have n't found not one thing, but
only jest two, and that was the old coffeepot and the gray cat,--it's
them nigger boys hanged her with a string they tied round her neck and
then drownded her." [P. Fagan, Jr., Aet. 14, had a snarl of similar
string in his pocket.]

Mistress Fagan opened the door of the best parlor. A woman was sitting
there alone, rocking back and forward, and fanning herself with the
blackest of black fans.

"Nuss Byloe, is that you? Well, to be sure, I'm glad to see y