“How did you feel when you were first engaged to John? weren’t you lightheaded and silly?”
“Oh, I dare say I was silly enough,” replied Dora with a sigh. At the mention of John a cloud seemed to settle down upon the brightness of her usually sunny face. “But what has that to do with your early rising? I don’t see the analogy between the two.”
“Congratulate me, Dora, Sappho has promised to marry me.”
“Oh, Will! Why did I not think of that? I declare I suspected something of the sort yesterday, but other things put it out of my mind. I am so glad!” cried Dora. “Where—when—how did it occur?”
“Yesterday on the Public Garden. I met her coming from church,” he replied proudly. “Do you see the analogy now between your engagement and my early rising?” he added, laughing.
“I should say so! How selfish of you to keep it to yourself all this time; you might have told us. Mother! mother! come quickly, I have something to tell you!” she called, moving toward the next room.
“Yes, Dora, dear,” replied the voice of Ma Smith, “just a minute!”
“Oh, hurry, hurry, mummie; it won’t keep.”
“Yes, yes, you excitable child; what is it? Nothing wrong with your brother”—she stopped as she caught sight of his smiling face. He went up to her and took her in his strong young arms—he was an affectionate son.
“Nothing wrong, mummie dear, but your boy is very happy. Will you have Sappho for a second daughter?”
“Gladly, my son,” replied his mother; and then she sank upon a chair, overcome as she comprehended the full meaning of his words.
“Why do you cry, mother dear, if the idea is not unpleasant to you?” asked Will, somewhat alarmed by her tears.
“Oh, Will, my boy, you will not let this new love cause you to forget the love of your old mother?”
“Never!” cried Will, as he pressed his lips to the sweet old face. “I would not be worthy of happiness could I be so ungrateful.”
“Don’t mind mother, Will; she cries on principle, because it is the proper thing for weddings and funerals. Isn’t that so, mummie mine?” laughed Dora, as she wiped a suspicious moisture from her own eyes.
“But what keeps Sappho so late? she’s generally down by this time,” she continued, with a glance at the little Swiss clock on the mantel.
“I’m going upstairs after the laggard, and have it out with her for keeping such news to herself. I know she’s bashful.”
Dora sprang up the stairs with a bound, and paused outside the door to rap. Receiving no answer she rapped again, and then tried the handle of the door. It yielded to her touch, and then she noticed that the key was on the outside. She threw the door open with a vague sense of something unusual in such a proceeding. The room was empty. She paused a moment in bewilderment as she glanced about her, and then saw the bed undisturbed in its snowy smoothness. Thoroughly alarmed now, she ran to the head of the stairs and called her brother.
Wondering what could be the trouble, Will hurried from the kitchen, closely followed by his mother. Upstairs they found Dora standing in the middle of the room with a frightened face.
“I found the key on the outside, the door unlocked. She is not here; and see, the bed has not been slept in; the closet door is open; some of her clothing is gone, and all her jewelry.”
Will stood beside her, gazing about the cozy nest with troubled eyes.
“When did you see her last?” he asked finally.
“At dinner yesterday; she complained of a headache, and went to her room to lie down.”
“She was here at half-past eleven, when I came in, for I saw a light in her window as I came down the street.”
“Well, children, there is nothing to worry about,” said Mrs. Smith; “she has probably gone out and will return shortly. There can’t be any great mystery about her absence.”
Just then the doorbell rang.
“There she is now,” said Will, as he bounded down the stairs in answer to the summons. The two women stood expectant, waiting for the sound of her voice. They heard nothing but the closing of the door and Will’s steps returning. Presently he stood before them with a letter in his hand.
“It is for me,” he said, in answer to their looks of inquiry. “I think it is from Sappho.”
His face was ashen; his hands trembled. He turned the square package over once—again—then mechanically, as in a dream, he tore the envelope open. The anxious women watched him as he ran his eyes rapidly over the written page, and then with a groan sank into a chair.
“What is it, Will? what has happened?” cried his mother and sister with one voice. Great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.
“O my God!” was his reply to the agonized entreaties of the two women. He threw his arms upon the desk beside him and dropped his head upon them. The letter fell upon the floor.
Mrs. Smith was a great sufferer from nervous weakness. Seeing her son’s unhappiness, she began to tremble and sob hysterically. Dora was badly frightened; but knowing that she must be calm for all their sakes, said:
“Mother, calm yourself. Do you not see that Will needs help?” She closed the open door to keep out curious intruders who might possibly be about, and then she picked up the letter.
“Read it!” groaned Will; “I can never tell you.”
Dora read it aloud:
Will:
When you receive this I shall be far away. What I am writing to you I ought to have told your family long ago. It must forever stand between us and marriage.
You remember the story told the night of the public meeting of the League by Luke Sawyer—the night I fainted? I am the unfortunate Mabelle Beaubean!
I did not die. The good Sisters gave out that
