d ideal.

CHAPTER XXX

It was dark that evening when John arrived home. As he opened the gate
he was surprised to see that the cottage was not lighted. That was
indeed strange, for Tilly was usually in the kitchen or the dining-room
at that hour. The next remarkable thing was the fact that the key was in
the lock. He felt it and heard it rattle as he caught the door-knob. The
hall was dark and silent. He went in hurriedly. What could have
happened? Where could she be? He called out: "Tilly! Tilly!" but there
was no response. A gray cat that belonged to the Carrols came and rubbed
against his ankles as he stood in the kitchen. He lighted the gas. How
odd! for there lay the unwashed breakfast-dishes, the uncleaned
coffee-pot, and in the dining-room the breakfast table-cloth had not
been removed. He put down his dinner-pail, and, with a great fear
clutching his breast, a fear he could not have defined, he went into the
sitting-room. Nothing here was out of place, and he turned into the
bedroom. It was dark, and with unsteady hands he struck a match. It
broke. A blazing globule fell to the mat. He swore impatiently and
extinguished it with his foot. He struck another and lighted the gas.
The open door of the closet, now empty, met his eyes. A crushed hat-box
lay on the floor, the bureau drawers were wide open and contained but a
few things. He looked for Tilly's trunk. It was gone. Then he began to
look everywhere for some written communication, lighting all the
gas-jets to facilitate his search. Then he gave it up. He went about
extinguishing the gas as aimlessly and mechanically as a sleepwalker,
unaware of the things he was touching.

He went out on the porch. He stepped down into the yard. Verbal
expression of no sort was formed in his consciousness, for the pall of
comprehension had not yet quite enveloped him. Something yet of hope
might blaze forth out of his gloom. Ah, perhaps she had received a
telegram from home that some one was ill and had not had time to inform
him. Yes, it might be that--that and not the other--not the damnable,
sinister conceit that somehow seemed to emerge from the home of his
mother and come crawling like a designing monster across the intervening
spaces toward him. He went to the gate and clutched it with the strong
hand which all that day had lifted mortar and bricks till his muscles
were sore. Then he heard the sound of wheels. A horse and cab were
approaching from the directi