my self-possession.
But though there were many girlish countenances to be seen in the
awestruck groups huddled in every corner, I beheld no Dorothy, and was
therefore but little astonished when in another moment I heard the cry
go up:

"Where is Dorothy? Where was she when her aunt died?"

Alas! there was no one there to answer, and the looks of those about,
which hitherto had expressed little save awe and fright, turned to
wonder, and more than one person left the room as if to look for her. I
did not join them. I was rooted to the place. Nor did Sinclair stir a
foot, though his eye, which had been wandering restlessly over the faces
about him, now settled inquiringly on the doorway. For whom was he
looking? Gilbertine or Dorothy? Gilbertine, no doubt, for he visibly
brightened as her figure presently appeared clad in a negligee, which
emphasised her height, and gave to her whole appearance a womanly
sobriety unusual to it.

She had evidently been told what had occurred, for she asked no
questions, only leaned in still horror against the doorpost, with her
eyes fixed on the room within. Sinclair, advancing, held out his arm.
She gave no sign of seeing it. Then he spoke. This seemed to rouse her,
for she gave him a grateful look, though she did not take his arm.

"There will be no wedding to-morrow," fell from her lips in
self-communing murmur.

Only a few minutes had passed since they had started to find Dorothy,
but it seemed an age to me. My body remained in the room, but my mind
was searching the house for the girl I loved. Where was she hidden?
Would she be found huddled but alive in some far-off chamber? Or was
another and more dreadful tragedy awaiting us? I wondered that I could
not join the search. I wondered that even Gilbertine's presence could
keep Sinclair from doing so. Didn't he know what in all probability this
missing girl had with her? Didn't he know what I had suffered, was
suffering? Ah! what now? She is coming! I can hear them speaking to her.
Gilbertine moves from the door, and a young man and woman enter with
Dorothy between them.

But what a Dorothy! Years could have made no greater change in her. She
looked and she moved like one who is done with life, yet fears the few
remaining moments left her. Instinctively we fell back before her;
instinctively we followed her with our eyes as, reeling a little at the
door, she cast a look of inconceivable shrinking, first at her own bed,
then at t