"What are you smiling at, Pat?" Miss Drayton asked her nephew sitting
beside her in the parlor car. They had passed through the tunnel and
crossed the beautiful Potomac Park and the shining river. Washington
Monument, like a finger pointing skyward, was fading in the distance.
"What amuses you, Pat?" repeated his aunt.
"Can't help grinning like a possum," answered Pat, with a chuckle.
"Every mile is taking us nearer Anne. How she'll jump and squeal
'oo-ee'--when she sees us! And--look here, Aunt Sarah--" he glanced
cautiously around to be sure that he was not observed, then opened his
travelling-bag and displayed a doll's dress--blue silk with frills and
lace ruffles. "I bought it in an F Street shop yesterday--for
Honey-Sweet, you know," he explained. "Gee! It'll tickle Anne for me to
give that doll a present. She'll--" he whistled a bar of ragtime.
Miss Drayton laughed heartily. The gift set aside so completely the
lapse of time that she could fancy she saw Anne running to meet them,
her tawny hair flying in the wind and Honey-Sweet clasped in her arms.
According to its habit, the Southern train was behind time. Instead of
early afternoon, it was twilight when Miss Drayton and Pat reached their
station. Dusk was deepening into drizzling night when their cab set them
down at the gate of the 'Home.' They were ushered through the prim hall
into the superintendent's office. Miss Farlow rose from her desk.
"You are in charge of this institution?" asked Miss Drayton.
"I am Miss Farlow, the superintendent."
"I am Miss Drayton from Washington City. This is my nephew, Patrick
Patterson. We are friends of Anne Lewis."
"You have news of her?" asked Miss Farlow, starting eagerly forward.
"News? We have come to see her--to take her home with us--to give her a
home," explained Miss Drayton.
Miss Farlow sank back on her chair, and buried her face in her hands.
The quiet, reserved woman was weeping bitterly. "If we only had her, if
we only had her!" she moaned. "Poor little motherless, fatherless one!
Oh, it was my fault. I failed in my duty. I tried to do right by her.
God knows I did."
"What is the matter? What do you mean?" Miss Drayton was frightened. Was
the child dead? injured? She dared not ask. "Anne--where is she?" she
faltered at last.
"I don't know." Miss Farlow was recovering her self-control and
struggling to speak steadily. "She started on a holiday trip with some
friends. On the way she disappeared. Absolutely disappeared. No one
knows where nor when. The nurse saw her last at Westcot, a few stations
from Lynchburg. The train was in the city before she was missed."
"We will find her. We must," cried Miss Drayton.
Miss Farlow was hopeless. "Not a stone has been left unturned. That was
two weeks ago. The trainmen were all questioned. Telegrams were sent to
every station. Mr. Marshall has spared neither trouble nor expense. No
one saw her get off. There is no trace of her. None. If the earth had
opened and swallowed her, she could not have disappeared more
completely. When you came in--strangers--and mentioned her name--my one
thought and hope was that you had found her." Miss Farlow sobbed. "I
think of her day and night. A little lost child! homeless! friendless!
all alone!"
"Don't, don't!" Pat put up his hand as if to ward off a blow. He
hurried from the room and crouched down in a corner of the cab,
staring out into the wet night. Somewhere in the darkness--in the
rain--homeless--friendless--all alone--was little Anne.
Surely there was some clew that they might follow to reach the child.
Miss Drayton and Pat went to 'Roseland' to hear the story from Mrs.
Marshall's own lips. She could give them no help. She and her husband
had done all that was possible. They would have done this for the
child's own sake. They were doubly bound to do it for the sake of their
sons who were heart-broken about Anne. Arthur was always begging them to
let Anne come back to see him. Dunlop understood that she was lost and
refused to be comforted.
Miss Drayton and Pat went into the nursery and found the children at
supper.
"I know, it's late, ma'am," said Martha, helplessly; "but Master Dunlop
he wouldn't let me have it afore. Do eat now, Master Dunlop. Here's this
nice strawberry jam."
Dunlop took up the spoon, then paused to ask, "Do you reckon Anne has
any strawberry jam for her supper?"
Pat shook his head.
Dunlop's lip quivered. "Then I don't want any. Take it away, Martha,"
and he pushed aside the spoon.
"Do with Anne wath here," lisped Arthur. "I got her thweater yolled up
smooth to keep for her. Whyn't she come?"
No one could tell him.
Miss Farlow wished Miss Drayton, according to Mr. Mayo's request, to
take charge of the child's jewels. But Miss Drayton refused.
"You keep them, please," she urged. "If--when Anne comes back, it will
be to you. She does not know where we are. Oh, I cannot bear the sight
of those miserable jewels," she exclaimed. "The mere thought of them
reminds me how I misjudged our poor child."
There was nothing she could do in Richmond and she hurried back to
Washington to consult her brother-in-law. How unlike the merry journey
of the day before was the silent, miserable trip!
"Don't take it so hard, dear boy," Miss Drayton said, clasping Pat's
hand which lay limp in hers a minute and was then withdrawn. "We may
find her yet,--well and happy."
She spoke in a half-hearted way and Pat shook his head hopelessly.
"She's been gone two weeks," he said, "and no sign of her. I think about
her--like that woman said--homeless--friendless--all alone--a little
lost child--in the wet and dark, like last night." There was a moment's
silence. Then Pat spoke again: "Aunt Sarah, I shall never feel the same
to father. It is his fault. He ought not to have put her there. He
ought to have told me where she was. If he had told me when I asked
him--that was three weeks ago, you know."
Miss Drayton reasoned, coaxed, entreated. "Think of your mother, Pat,"
she said gently. "How you would grieve her!"
"I do think of her," returned Pat. "She would never have acted so. And
she would never have let father send Anne away."
Miss Drayton sighed. Was it not sad and pitiful enough to have that poor
little orphan lost? Must her dead sister's husband be estranged from his
only son?
Pat stood silent while Miss Drayton told his father the story of their
journey. Mr. Patterson listened--surprised at first, then vexed. Now and
then, he interrupted with brief, pointed questions. The answers left him
anxious, distressed. Presently he took off his eyeglasses and put his
hand up as if to shade his eyes from the light. When the tale was
finished, there was a brief silence. A gentle breeze rustled the
elm-tree at the window. A carriage clattered past. A newsboy shouting
"Papers!" ran down the quiet street.
Mr. Patterson dropped his hand. His lashes were wet with tears. "Lord!"
he said in a broken voice. "Can I ever forgive myself?"
Pat started forward with tears in his eyes. "Father!" he cried.
"Dear--old--dad! We'll find her yet."
Mr. Patterson seized the outstretched hand and held it close. "God grant
it," he said. "My son, my son!"