GONE.
THE answer from Mrs. Shaddock had come. Gertrude was to go as soon as
she could arrange to set off, and Mrs. Ashlyn and the two girls were
very busy during the days which elapsed, stitching and planning and
packing.
When they were together, all tried to face the impending parting with
as much cheerfulness as possible. But the nearer it got, the worse it
seemed.
Otto, after that one lonely walk on the shore, buried himself in his
studies with more diligence than ever, seldom looking up to joke with
Phyllis or fall into one of those talks with Gertrude that had been
such a happiness to him before.
The last day seemed a very long one. In the afternoon, when they were
up-stairs putting the final things into the box, the door opened and a
sweet face peeped in.
"Rose!" exclaimed Phyllis.
Any one could see that the lady whom Phyllis addressed was her own
sister, but the sad eyes and ethereal mournful look did not match
Phyllis's bright face at all.
"My dearest!" said Rose's mother, rising. "Have you come home?"
"Yes, we came last night. To-day I have done nothing but set my house
in order."
She sighed heavily, as she put her bonnet on the bed and turned to
smooth her hair at the glass, which reflected back a singularly lovely
young face set in wavy hair, which at thirty was already almost white.
She smoothed it back with careless grace, and turned to her mother with
a faint smile, saying, "I have come to tea!"
"I am so glad," said Gertrude. "It would have seemed worse to go
without seeing you, Rose."
"I need not ask?" said Mrs. Ashlyn, tenderly. "You have had no tidings?"
"None," answered Rose, sadly. "We spent all our holiday in searching,
and could gain not the slightest clue."
When they went down-stairs, Otto sat in the window still buried in his
books. But on their entrance, he closed them and rose to greet the
new-comer, glancing in her face inquiringly, as the others had done,
knowing that the answer was to be read plainly enough without any words.
Rose and her husband had passed through a terrible sorrow—one so
dreadful that life had seemed a blank to them from the moment, two
years ago, when they had become childless!
No little grave belonged to the sorrowful parents; no last days of love
and tenderness could be remembered; no little clothes in which their
darling had died were left for that broken-hearted mother. Their child
had been snatched from them, and had left no mark behind.
The young mother, when lodging for a few weeks at the seaside, had
suddenly been called away to attend her husband, who was dangerously
ill.
The landlady, who had only one boy, offered in the kindest way to take
charge of their four-year-old darling. And in an agony of doubt, torn
between love for husband and child, Rose left the child in her charge,
and set off on her long journey to Scotland.
While she was there, she received one letter from the landlady to say
all was going well. And then a week elapsed and no further tidings came.
She wrote to inquire, and on receiving no answer, she left her
convalescent husband and hurried south.
When she arrived at the lodgings, all things were as she had left them
a fortnight before, but the house was empty!
No landlady, no boy, no child!
The neighbours said she had hurriedly set out ten days ago, saying the
little visitor was ill and must be taken to his mother. And this was
all any one knew. They had taken tickets to London, and there all trace
of them ceased.
That was Rose's story: no wonder that Otto looked in her face to see if
in their weary search any hope had crept in.
No earthly hope had entered, but in that depth of desolation, when
their hearts had been almost broken, the One who healeth the broken in
heart had drawn near to them to bind up their wounds.
"He belonged to Jesus," Rose had said to her mother; "he loved Jesus,
even though he was so little. By and by we shall meet again, either
here or in heaven, and I can trust Him!"
Oh, the depth which that loving heart had reached before she could say,
"I can trust Him!"
Otto knew all the story. Besides, Rose's husband was Otto's own brother.
So they sat down to tea, and Rose put away her own sorrows while she
entered into all the interests at the cottage.
At last it was time to go, and Otto offered to accompany his
sister-in-law home.
"To-night?" she asked, surprised. "I can easily go back in the omnibus,
Otto, and you would rather not be away this last night?"
"I shall come with you," he answered; "there will be all too much time
for good-byes even then. Goodbyes are wretched things."
His eyes met Gertrude's, and then looked away again. "Shall you be up
when I come home?" he asked.
"That depends on what time that will be," she answered, smiling a very
little.
"Then I will come in time to see you," he said.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]