ian
laws at him in her fury, but he could not blame her; oh, no, he
could not for one moment blame her. He had been terribly severe and
unreasonable, and the horrid McDonald temper had got the better of
him; and he loved her so. Oh! He loved her so! She would surely feel
that, and forgive him, and-- He went straight to his wife's room.
The blue velvet evening dress lay on the chair into which he had
thrown himself when he doomed his life's happiness by those two
words, "God knows." A bunch of dead daffodils and her slippers were
on the floor, everything--but Christie.

He went to his brother's bedroom door.

"Joe," he called, rapping nervously thereon; "Joe, wake up; where's
Christie, d'you know?"

"Good Lord, no," gasped that youth, springing out of his armchair
and opening the door. As he did so a note fell from off the handle.
Charlie's face blanched to his very hair while Joe read aloud, his
voice weakening at every word:--

"DEAR OLD JOE,--I went into your room at daylight to get that
picture of the Post on your bookshelves. I hope you do not mind, but
I kissed your hair while your slept; it was so curly, and yellow,
and soft, just like his. Good-bye, Joe.

"CHRISTIE."

And when Joe looked into his brother's face and saw the anguish
settle in those laughing blue eyes, the despair that drove the
dimples away from that almost girlish mouth; when he realized that
this boy was but four-and-twenty years old, and that all his future
was perhaps darkened and shadowed for ever, a great, deep sorrow
arose in his heart, and he forgot all things, all but the agony that
rang up through the voice of the fair, handsome lad as he staggered
forward, crying, "Oh! Joe--what shall I do--what shall I do!"

* * * * *

It was months and months before he found her, but during all that
time he had never known a hopeless moment; discouraged he often
was, but despondent, never. The sunniness of his ever-boyish heart
radiated with warmth that would have flooded a much deeper gloom
than that which settled within his eager young life. Suffer? ah! yes,
he suffered, not with locked teeth and stony stoicism, not with the
masterful self-command, the reserve, the conquered bitterness of the
still-water sort of nature, that is supposed to run to such depths.
He tried to be bright, and his sweet old boyish self. He would laugh
sometimes in a pitiful, pathetic fashion. He took to petting dogs,
looking into th