gone,--left the village a year ago;
and I have never seen or heard of her since."

Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to
know that she was not dead;--at least there was reason to hope that she
might be still alive.

"But when did she go? and why? and where?"

"She went about twelve months ago," replied Mr Jollyboy. "You see,
Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit;
and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in
her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a
pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of
the comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having
run all the way from the village, to say that Mrs Grumbit had packed up
a bundle of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took
the opportunity of the girl's absence on some errand to escape; and we
should never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her
get into the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make
inquiries after Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long
before I arrived the coach had discharged its passengers, and the
coachman, not suspecting that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of
her after arriving. From that day to this I have not ceased to
advertise and make all possible inquiries, but without success."

Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a
few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then
starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr Jollyboy's hand, "Good-bye, my dear
friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again."

"Stay, Martin, stay--"

But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend,
and in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The
coach was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two
outside seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There
it stood, quaint time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen
it--the little garden in which he had so often played, the bower in
which, on fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on
which the white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed,
and the door was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep
silence brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin's
heart than if he had come and found every vesti