the, and into the presence of
Lord Sartoris.

"_You_ will find me my girl," he says, and then he tells him all the
story.

Sartoris listens, and, as he does so, sickens with doubt that is
hardly a doubt, and fear that is nearly a certainty. Is this the end
he has so dreaded? Is this the creeping horror that has of late so
tortured him? Alas for the unblemished honor of the old name that for
centuries has held itself _sans peur et sans reproche_.

How can he dare to offer consolation to old Annersley? He covers his
face with his hands, and bends forward over the table. There is
something in his attitude that denotes despair, and renders more keen
the agony in Annersley's bosom.

"Why do you do that?" he cries, fiercely. "What is there to groan
about? Nothing, I tell you! The child has gone too far,--has lost her
way. She didn't understand. She cannot find her road home.--No
more--no more!"

His excitement and grief are pitiful to see. He wrings his hands; his
whole bearing and expression are at variance with his hopeful words.
"She will come back in an hour or two, mayhap," he says, miserably,
"and then I shall feel that I have disturbed your lordship: but I am
in a hurry, you see: I want her, and I cannot wait."

"What do you want me to do for you?" says Sartoris, very humbly. He
feels that he can hardly lift his eyes in this man's presence.

"Find her! That is all I ask of you. Find her, dead or alive! You are
a great man,--high in authority, with power, and servants at command.
Find me my child! Oh, _man_, help me, in some way!"

He cries this in an impassioned tone. He is totally overcome. His poor
old white head falls helplessly upon his clasped arms.

Sartoris, pale as death, and visibly affected, can make no reply. He
trembles, and stands before the humble miller as one oppressed with
guilt.

Annersley mistakes his meaning, and, striding forward, lays his hand
upon his arm.

"You are silent," he says, in a terrible tone, made up of grief and
anguish more intense than words can tell. "You do not think she is in
the wrong, do you? You believe her innocent? Speak!--speak!"

"I do," responds Sartoris, and only his own heart knows that he lies.
Yet his tone is so smothered, so unlike his usual one, that he hardly
recognizes it himself.

"If Mr. Branscombe were only here," says Annersley, in a stricken
voice, after a lengthened pause, "he would help me. He has always been
a kind friend to me and mine."