FLOY’S QUEST.
“Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here;
Passions of prouder name befriend us less.”--YOUNG.
Very lonely and desolate felt poor Floy as the train sped onward,
bearing her every moment farther away from childhood’s home and friends
out into the wide, wide, unknown world.
What sad, unforeseen changes the past few days had wrought in her young
life! What a little while since she had been moving thus swiftly toward
her home, instead of away from it, and under loving, protecting care;
whereas now she was utterly alone so far as earthly companionship was
concerned!
Alone and screened from human eyes behind the closely-drawn curtains of
her berth, she poured out her tears and prayers to her one ever-living,
ever-present Friend.
“Do not fear, my poor dear child! do not fear to trust Him!” Miss Wells
had said in parting. “He will help you and raise up friends for you
wherever you go.”
The words dwelt in the girl’s mind with soothing, comforting power. She
tried to cast her care on Him, and presently her fears (for she could
not forget the dreadful accident of her last journey), her griefs, her
losses and perplexities, were forgotten in sleep.
It was late in the afternoon of the next day that she reached
Clearfield, no longer a little country station in the depths of
a forest, but a flourishing town numbering several thousands of
inhabitants.
She had several times heard a description of the place from both Mr.
and Mrs. Kemper, but without any allusion to the episode which had
fixed it so firmly in their memories. She glanced eagerly about on
stepping from the cars, but failed to recognize a single feature of
the scene. The shanty inn had long since disappeared; the old dingy
depot had been replaced by a new and larger one, affording much better
accommodation to the travelling public; and dwelling-houses, fields,
and gardens now occupied the space then covered by the wild growth of
the forest.
Floy had inquired of the last conductor on the train the name of the
best hotel in the town, and an omnibus speedily carried her thither.
She asked for a room, and while waiting stepped into the public parlor
and, completely overcome with fatigue, dropped into an easy chair, laid
her head back, and closed her eyes.
A kind voice spoke close at her side, the speaker, a motherly old lady
glancing pityingly at the pale, sad face and deep mourning dress.
“You are ill, my poor child, and seem to be quite alone. What can I do
for you?”
Floy opened her eyes languidly.
“Nothing, thank you; I think I am not ill, only very weary. They will
show me to a room presently, and then I can lie down and rest.”
“A cup of hot tea, Nelson,” said the old lady, turning to a servant
who had just entered, “and have a room--the one next to mine--made
ready immediately for this young lady.”
This old lady, as Floy soon learned, was the mother of Mr. Bond, the
proprietor of the hotel. She proved a most kind and helpful friend to
our heroine, listening with great sympathy and interest to the sad
story which the young girl, won by her motherly manner, presently told
her without reserve, except in the matter of the loss of the will and
the troubles growing out of it; then assisting her with advice and
needed co-operation in her self-appointed task.
There were two weekly papers published in the town. In the next
issue of each of these an advertisement was inserted, giving a brief
statement of the facts, with an offer of reward for any certain
information in regard to the missing woman or any of those who had seen
her and heard her story. At the same time private inquiries were set on
foot, and the search prosecuted in every way with the utmost activity
and perseverance.