ernal
farewell. Afterwards, he remembered, she had not given him--on that
night of all others--the customary kiss, but had passed away from him
coldly, callously--or was it that she feared?

Tired out with his day's work, the miller had gone to bed The girl,
as was her habit ever since the longer evenings had set in, had gone
for a little walk into the dewy woods, where we are told "every bough
that moves over our head has an oracular wisdom." Alas! that they
should have taught her so little. She had crossed the road before the
very eyes of her household, had entered the green forest of
early-breaking leaves, had faded from sight, and never came back
again.

The old man, who rises and goes to bed with the sun (most constant
companion of simple minds), had slept peacefully all night, never
doubting that the child of his heart lay dreaming calm and happy
dreams in her own room. Not until the morning was far advanced did he
discover that Ruth's bed had known no occupant the night before.

Afterwards, too, he remembered how little this thought had jarred upon
him just at first. It was strange, vexing; she should have told him
where she meant to spend her evening; but, beyond that, it caused him
no pang, no suspicion.

Her aunt lived in a neighboring town,--probably she had gone there. It
was only four miles away,--a walk Ruth had taken many a day, and
thought nothing of it; but it was imprudent starting on such a journey
so late in the evening; and, besides, there was always the old mare to
drive her there and back.

Messengers were despatched to her aunt's house, but they returned
bringing no tidings. She was not there--had not been for over a
fortnight.

Day wanes; twilight is descending,--

"Melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams."

All day the miller has sat apart, his snow-white head upon his arms,
in the room her hands had beautified and made so dear. With passionate
indignation he has thrust from him all the attempts at sympathy, all
the hurtful, though well-meant, offers of assistance held out to him
by kindly neighbors. Silent, and half maddened by his thoughts, he
sits dogged and silent, refusing food, and waiting only for her who
never comes.

But when, at length, the gloaming comes, and day is over, without
bringing to him the frail form of her he so desires, he rises, and,
pushing back his chair, goes up to Hy