out of sight!"

"Clean gone, that she were, sir."

"Why did they take her away? what have they done with her? where have
they taken her to?"

These red-hot questionings were addressed to the universal heaven rather
than to Tom.

"Why didn't she write?" they were resumed. "Why did she leave? She's
mine. She belongs to me! Who dared take her away? Why did she leave
without writing?--Tom!"

"Yes, sir," said the well-drilled recruit, dressing himself up to the
word of command. He expected a variation of the theme from the change of
tone with which his name had been pronounced, but it was again, "Where
have they taken her to?" and this was even more perplexing to Tom than
his hard sum in arithmetic had been. He could only draw down the corners
of his mouth hard, and glance up queerly.

"She had been crying--you saw that, Tom?"

"No mistake about that, Mr. Richard. Cryin' all night and all day, I sh'd
say."

"And she was crying when you saw her?"

"She look'd as if she'd just done for a moment, sir."

"But her face was white?"

"White as a sheet."

Richard paused to discover whether his instinct had caught a new view
from these facts. He was in a cage, always knocking against the same
bars, fly as he might. Her tears were the stars in his black night. He
clung to them as golden orbs. Inexplicable as they were, they were at
least pledges of love.

The hues of sunset had left the West. No light was there but the
steadfast pale eye of twilight. Thither he was drawn. He mounted
Cassandra, saying: "Tell them something, Tom. I shan't be home to
dinner," and rode off toward the forsaken home of light over Belthorpe,
whereat he saw the wan hand of his Lucy, waving farewell, receding as he
advanced. His jewel was stolen,--he must gaze upon the empty box.

CHAPTER XXIII

Night had come on as Richard entered the old elm-shaded, grass-bordered
lane leading down from Raynham to Belthorpe. The pale eye of twilight was
shut. The wind had tossed up the bank of Western cloud, which was now
flying broad and unlighted across the sky, broad and balmy--the charioted
South-west at full charge behind his panting coursers. As he neared the
farm his heart fluttered and leapt up. He was sure she must be there. She
must have returned. Why should she have left for good without writing? He
caught suspicion by the throat, making it voiceless, if it lived: he
silenced reason. Her not writing was now a proof that she had returned.