"Sit down, Ernest, and be calm."

"I'm calm enough. I could forgive you for anything you have done to me.
If you will not tell me where she is, I shall find her myself."

"You cannot find her."

"I can apply to Mr. Robert G. Bunyard--and--"

My uncle sprang to his feet, uttered a cry of agony, and attempted to
stagger towards me; but his legs yielded beneath him, and he sank upon
the floor. He had either fainted or fallen in a fit. I called old
Betsey, and she and I placed him on a sofa. She said he had only
fainted, and wanted to know what had happened. I replied that my uncle
would tell her if he thought best. We bathed his head and rubbed his
temples till he opened his eyes.

"Send for Thomas," said he, feebly.

I was satisfied that he would recover, and being perfectly willing Tom
should be sent for, I told Jerry where he could probably be found. I
then left the house by the front door. My uncle's horse stood at the
hitching-post. He had probably employed some one to follow up the
Splash, and then returned to the house. As I went out, I saw a large
sail-boat standing up the lake, which I concluded was in pursuit of me.
Hastening up the hill, I found Bob greatly alarmed at my long absence.

"I was afraid something had happened to you," said he.

"Drive on, and I will tell you about it," I replied, as I seated myself
in the wagon.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH ERNEST LEAVES PARKVILLE, AND TAKES THE TRAIN FOR THE EASTWARD.

"WHAT kept you so long?" asked Bob, when I was seated. "I was sure
something had gone wrong with you."

"I don't know whether it has gone right or wrong. I went into the
library, and opened the safe again. While I was looking at the papers,
my uncle came in."

"Whew!" whistled Bob. "There was a storm in the library about that
time--wasn't there?"

"Not much of a storm. I pity my uncle from the bottom of my heart. He is
suffering more than you can imagine or I can describe, and he has been a
sufferer for years," I replied.

"Well, what did he say to you?" asked Bob, who did not seem to be in the
humor, at that moment, for moralizing.

I described the scene which had occurred in the library as minutely as I
could,--and Kate and Bob were thrilled by the narrative. For my own part
I had not yet recovered from the shock it had given me. The expression
of agony on my uncle's face haunted my imagination. I could still see
his pale face and his quivering lip, and his piteous pleading