where
she did.

"He mayn't have got the telegram;" she adventured.

"It would have been returned if he had not. Besides, Dr. Craig said it
would be delivered last night, and Paul was not likely to be out at
night."

Still the hours passed, and no answer came.

Nor did any come the next day, and the next.

"You are sure about the address, I suppose?" queried Sue, at last. She
had not liked to make the suggestion before, since Maud, correct to a
degree, was apt to resent any suspicion of carelessness or
inaccuracy,--but the outlook was growing serious. A fresh telegram had
been despatched, and Paul had also been written to,--it was inexplicable
that he should remain silent, unless a mistake had been made somewhere.

"I am quite sure;" replied Maud briefly, and no more was said.

It was the evening of the third day, and darkness was falling outside.
Leo, who had been waiting for this, had stolen outside, permitted, even
urged thereto, by Sue, touched and consoled by what she took for a
reflex of her own grief upon her young sister's face--and she had got
some way from the house, when, in the deepening shadows beyond, she saw
Paul coming.

Her first impulse was as usual to fly, but a second brought her swiftly
to his side. She must see, must hear, must know at once--a maddening
curiosity prevailed over every other feeling.

And it was immediately, if superficially met. He was eager to
explain--while looking back on it she could not see that he had
explained anything. He had received no communication, he had heard no
tidings till the same day at noon, and had started by the first train,
which he had barely had time to catch.

So far all was clear, but the how or the why was left untouched,--and he
was hurriedly asking _her_ to speak, begging for information,
ejaculating expressions of sympathy, and reiterating regrets all the way
back to the house, as if he found it impossible to take in all the sad
details, for she was asked the same questions over and over again.

It was not till Leo was alone that she had a moment wherein to ask
herself--Was she glad--was she sorry--was she relieved or bitterly
disappointed that there was no trace of that mystery secretly conjured
up during the past dreadful days? She had pondered, and fancied--oh, how
cruel she had been, forever dwelling on the possibility that she might
never need to see Paul Foster again;--yet now the joy of it--the pain of
it--the bliss of it--the misery