her
village school to me; and though she went about the house still and
insisted on keeping the keys, gradually, "just for the sake of
practice," the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud.

An answer arrived from Lloyd's: the "Stars-and-Stripes" was an
American vessel, probably of small tonnage and importance, was the
under-writers knew nothing of it.

More delay--more suspense. The summer days came--but not Guy. No news
of him--not a word--not a line.

His father wrote to America--pursuing inquiries in all directions. At
last some tangible clue was caught. The "Stars-and-Stripes" had
sailed, had been spoken with about the Windward Isles--and never heard
of afterwards.

Still, there was a hope. John told the hope first, before he ventured
to speak of the missing ship, and even then had to break the news
gently, for the mother had grown frail and weak, and could not bear
things as she used to do. She clung as if they had been words of life
or death to the ship-owner's postscript--"that they had no recollection
of the name of Halifax; there might have been such a gentleman on
board--they could not say. But it was not probable; for the
'Stars-and-Stripes' was a trading vessel, and had not good
accommodation for passengers."

Then came week after week--I know not how they went by--one never does,
afterwards. At the time they were frightfully vivid, hour by hour; we
rose each morning, sure that some hope would come in the course of the
day; we went to bed at night, heavily, as if there were no such thing
as hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that was the worst
consciousness of all, our life of suspense became perfectly natural;
and everything in and about the house went on as usual, just as though
we knew quite well--what the Almighty Father alone knew!--where our
poor lad was, and what had become of him. Or rather, as if we had
settled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our own lives alone
would bring us, that he had slipped out of life altogether, and there
was no such being as Guy Halifax under this pitiless sun.

The mother's heart was breaking. She made no moan, but we saw it in
her face. One morning--it was the morning after John's birthday, which
we had made a feint of keeping, with Grace Oldtower, the two little
grandchildren, Edwin and Louise--she was absent at breakfast and
dinner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many days
following it happened the