you know," he said, "that people
certainly do suspect you."

"Suspect me or not as you please," she answered, "but let us find little
Agnes. The night is cold; there is sleet falling outside. It will turn
to snow before morning. Where is the child? After all," she continued,
speaking more like a grown woman than the wild sort of creature that she
had been a few months ago, "she is under your charge, Professor
Merriman, and you are bound to do your utmost to find her."

But nowhere in the house--not even in the cellars, which Lucy as a last
resort suggested might possibly be her hiding-place--could little Agnes
be found. At last a regular outdoor search was instituted. Lucy was now
really frightened, although she would not own this feeling even to
herself.

"Silly, tiresome child!" she kept muttering to herself.

As to Irene, not a single word passed her lips. Suddenly, in the midst
of the searchers, she was missing. People wondered where she had gone
to. Irene had rushed back to her own room, the room where she and little
Agnes had been so happy together. She looked at the little white bed
where they had lain in each other's arms. All her past, so cruel, so
thoughtless, so selfish, was borne in upon her. She dropped on her
knees, and in an agony of terror said aloud, "O God, help me to find
her, and to be a good girl in future."

Then Irene felt a wonderful sense of calm. She went down again through
the house. No one noticed her, for every one was in a great state of
alarm. Those girls who were in bed were desired not to get up; but a
good many had disobeyed orders, and Miss Archer, Mademoiselle Omont
(gesticulating wildly), Professor Merriman, his wife, the servants, and
the older girls were all searching in vain for Agnes. They were calling
her name, but no one thought of the bower at the far end of the
shrubbery; for what child would be likely to take refuge there?

Irene, however, all of a sudden remembered it. She remembered the night
long ago when she, a wild little untamed creature, had crept into the
room where Rosamund slept, had forced her to come out with her, and they
had spent the night together in the bower. She would go there now. She
did not know what guided her footsteps, but she felt sure some one did.

Now, the shrubbery, a delightful place in warm weather, was damp and
cold as ice at this time of the year. The leaves, now falling thickly
from the trees, lay sodden on the ground. Sleet continu