"Gone!" echoed John Everett blankly. "Are you telling me that Jane has gone?" Then he stooped over his sister with something almost threatening in his face and attitude. "Margaret," he said quietly, "you must tell me at once what has happened to Jane!"

Mrs. Belknap glanced up at him fearfully. "O Jack!" she cried, "surely you do not—you cannot——"

"How long has she been gone?" demanded her brother, still in that ominously quiet tone. "Tell me quick!"

"Not ten minutes," replied his sister. "But, Jack, dear Jack, listen to me! She—she—wasn't honest; I found——"

A smothered exclamation of wrath and grief, a loud slam of the front door, and the sound of his hurrying feet without reduced Mrs. Belknap to despairing tears.

"Oh! what shall I do?" she asked herself miserably. "I tried to be fair to Jane; I did indeed! I should never have accused her. But what could I think? And if Jack—oh! that would be worst of all! But perhaps he is just sorry for her; he is always being sorry for people. I wish she had taken the money; the sight of it makes me feel like a thief! And I wish—oh, I wish Jimmy would come!"

The little pile of bills and silver, representing the month's wages which she had urged upon poor Jane, seemed to accuse her solemnly. She put it hastily out of sight, glad of her child's insistent demands for attention.

The boy climbed upon her knee and pillowed his head comfortably upon her breast. "Jane cwied, muzzer," he remarked presently.

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Belknap nervously. "Would you like mother to tell you about the three little pigs?"

"Uh-huh; tell me 'bout 'e' free 'ittle pigs. Jane cwied, muzzer!"

"Yes, dear. Now listen: Once upon a time there was a nice, kind pig mamma, and she had three dear, little——"

"Muzzer, if I—if I div Jane my fwannel el'phunt, would she—would she 'top cwi'in? I like my Jane, muzzer!"

"Poor little sweetheart!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap, with a gratifying sense of indignation against Jane welling up warm within her. "Never mind about Jane, darling; listen to mother while she tells you about the three dear little pigs. One was a little white pig, with pink eyes and a pink nose and the cunningest little curly tail."

"Was his 'ittle curly tail pink, muzzer?"

"Yes, dear; it was all pink, and——"

"No!" objected her son strongly; "his 'ittle curly tail was—it was— Tell me, muzzer!"

"It was—pinky white, a delicate, peach blossom sort of color," hazarded Mrs. Belknap. "Now be quiet, dear, and listen. The second little pig was spotted, white and——"

"If I div Jane my wed bwocks, would she 'top cwi'in, muzzer?"

"White and brown," went on his mother desperately. "Now you must listen, Buster, or mother cannot tell you the story. The third little pig was black—all pure black."

"Was his 'ittle curly tail all bwack, muzzer?"

"Yes; his little curly tail and all—pure black. He was the smallest pig of all; but his mother loved him dearly."

"Did he cwi, muzzer?"

"No; never; none of them ever cried. They were——"

"Jane cwied, muzzer."

"They were very good, obedient little pigs. They never interrupted their dear mother when she told them stories. They were——"

"I like my Jane," murmured the infant, applying his fists to his eyes, "an'—an' I like my supper. Tell Jane to div me my supper, muzzer!"

"Why, you poor little darling! Of course you must be hungry! Mother will give you your supper right away. Come, dear!"

Mrs. Belknap arose with a sigh of relief, and made her way to the kitchen. "Mary," she began, "I will give Buster his supper now; you may—" She stopped short in horrified dismay. Miss MacGrotty was lolling against the table, a saucepan grasped negligently in one hand, while its contents drizzled slowly down the broad expanse of her aproned front into a puddle on the floor.

"Why, Mary!" cried her mistress, "you are spilling that gravy all over yourself; do be careful!"

"Careful—is ut? Careful! I'm that—hic careful, mum! You'll not find me equal—on Shtaten Island, mum. I'm—jist a-ristin' mesilf a bit. I'm that wore out wid—hic—shlavin' fer the loikes av yez. An' I'll do ut no longer!"

Miss MacGrotty here relinquished her lax hold upon the saucepan which glissaded briskly to the floor, scattering blobs of brown sauce in every direction.

"Mary!" repeated Mrs. Belknap, "you must be ill!"

"Git out av me kitchen!" advised Miss MacGrotty trenchantly. "I'll not have the loikes av yez a-bossin' me! I'm a perfec' leddy, I am, an'—hic—I'll not put up wid yer lip no more, ner I won't put up wid hers neither—a-tellin' me I ain't honest, an' me on'y takin' me perquisites now an' thin in tay an' sugar an' the loike!"

"I do believe you've been drinking!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap, a great light breaking in upon her mind. "Tell me, was it you who put those things in poor Jane's trunk?"

"Indade, an' I'll not tak' a worrd av yer imperance!" retorted Miss MacGrotty, with drunken dignity. "I says to mesilf, 'I'll tak' down her high looks,' I says. An' I done ut!"

Mrs. Belknap turned and fled—straight into the arms of her husband, who had just entered the house. In that safe refuge the little woman burst into tormented tears, while the infant clinging to her skirts lifted up his voice in sympathetic concert.

"What in the world?" began the distracted husband and father. "Hold hard here! I've got oranges, Buster! and violets, Madge! Come, dear, brace up and tell a fellow what's up! Anybody sick or dead? Or what has happened?"

Thus entreated Mrs. Belknap sobbed out an incoherent account of the untoward happenings of the day.

Mr. Belknap whistled, after a safe masculine habit. "Well, you have had a day of it!" he exclaimed. "Jane convicted and evicted; Jack eloped (presumably) and Mary intoxicated! By Jove! I believe she's preparing to invade the front of the house. Here, dear, you take the boy and go in the other room, and I'll manage the hilarious lady."

The rumble of a deep Irish voice and the slamming of furniture in the dining room presaged the dramatic advent of Miss MacGrotty, armed with a poker and a toasting fork. "I'll tak' down the high looks av her afore I'm done wid her!" she was declaiming.

"Hello, Mary! What's the matter with you?" demanded Mr. Belknap in a loud and cheerful voice.

At sight of her master, tall, broad and authoritative, Miss MacGrotty sank into a chair and began to weep hysterically. "Aw, sur!" she faltered, "may the saints in hiven bless your kind hearrt fur askin'! I've be'n that—hic—put upon this day, an' me a perfec' leddy, but that delicut an' ailin' I'm 'bliged to tak' a wee drap occasional to kape up me spirits loike! 'You've be'n drinkin'' she says. The imperance av her!"

Mr. Belknap had grasped the lady firmly by the arm. "You need a little rest, Mary," he said sympathetically. "You must have been working too steadily. My wife's a hard mistress."

"That she is, sur, bliss yer kind hearrt! If you'd lave me be, sur, I'd—hic—tak' down the high looks av her, an' that hussy, Jane, too. But I got good an' even wid hur!"

"What did you do to Jane?" inquired her captor, who was gently shoving his prize up the stairs.

"Don't you know, sur? an' you that shmart in your business? She's 'asy fooled! Sure, an' I changed things about a bit in the house; that's all I done."

"Ah-ha! Very clever of you, Mary. You put the missis's things in Jane's room—eh? Good joke that!"

Miss MacGrotty laughed hysterically. "She ain't found 'em all yit," she whispered. "Tell her to look between the mattresses av the bed."

"Thanks for the information, old girl!" observed Mr. Belknap genially. And having arrived at his destination, namely, the apartment occupied by Miss MacGrotty, he gently deposited his charge within; then shut and locked the door upon her.

"She'll sleep it off before morning," he told his wife reassuringly; "then I'll see that she leaves the house peaceably. I told you she was a fraud, dear. But never mind, better luck next time. As for Jack, I do hope he'll find that poor girl for the sake of the family peace of mind."

"I—I hope so too, Jimmy; only——"

"Don't worry about Jack," advised her husband. "He's too level-headed to rush into matrimony merely because he's sorry to see a girl treated unjustly."

"But, Jimmy dear," protested his wife, "I don't see what I could have done. There were the things—in her trunk."

Mr. Belknap shook his head. "It's pretty hard on a little woman when she's suddenly called upon to act as prosecuting lawyer, judge, jury and all," he said sympathetically. "But I think you were a bit hasty, dear. You might have suspended judgment, as they say, considering the defendant's general character."

"Yes, I really ought to have known better, I suppose," agreed Mrs. Belknap meekly. "But I can't help being afraid that Jack is more than sorry for Jane. And, Jimmy, she's only a servant—even if she is honest, and yes—I will acknowledge it—pretty."

"Talk about our glorious American democracy!" groaned her husband in mock dismay.

"Well, I'll put it straight to you, Jimmy Belknap; would you like Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe for a sister-in-law?"

"Hum! That depends," said Jimmy Belknap, with a conservative grin. "But I say, Margaret, let's see what we can do about that dinner I seem to smell burning on the range."

While these important events were transpiring in the Belknap household, Mr. John Everett was having divers and sundry experiences of his own. As he plunged down the street in the fast-gathering darkness of the spring night he was conscious of but one desire, and that was to find Jane. Having found her, he knew definitely that he meant never to lose sight of her again. This much was certain, and the fine, drizzling rain which presently began to fall did not serve to dampen his resolution.

There was no car in sight when he reached the corner—no car and no waiting figure. One nearly always waited to the worn limits of one's patience on this particular corner, as Mr. Everett already knew from frequent experience. Traffic was light in this modest, detached suburb, and the traveling public correspondingly meek and long-suffering. But occasionally one did "catch" a car, despite the infrequency of the phenomenon. If Jane had gone—actually gone away into the great, wide, cruel world, how could he ever find her? And not to find Jane meant an aching desolation of spirit which already gripped him by the throat and forced the salt drops to his eyes.

"I will find her!" said John Everett to himself; and then, all at once, he found her.

She was standing under the sparse shelter of a newly leaved tree, her eyes shining big and tearless in the cold, white light of the shuddering arc-light.

"Jane!" cried John Everett. "Thank God I have found you, Jane!"

The girl looked up at him quietly. She did not reply; but the sight of his agitated face seemed to stir some frozen current of life within her. She sighed; then colored painfully over all her fair face. "She has told you," she said, "and you——"

"I love you, Jane," he said impetuously. "I want you to be my wife. O Jane dear, dear girl, don't turn away from me!"

"The car is coming," she said faintly. "You must not—oh, good-by, good-by!"

The brightly lighted car groaned and squeaked painfully to a standstill, and he helped her to mount the high step.

"Good-by," she murmured again; but when she looked up he was still at her side, feeling mechanically in his pocket for fares. "You must not go with me," she said firmly. "People will see you, and—and—I should prefer to be alone."

John Everett set his square American jaw. "I am sorry," he said briefly, "but I am going to see you to a place of safety somewhere. And to-morrow——"

"I do not need you," she said pointedly. "I am going to my friend, Miss Forbes, in New York."

"Very well," he agreed, "I will see you to your friend's house."

She did not once look at him till they had found places in a secluded corner on the ferryboat deck. Then she spoke again.

"I wish," she said gently, "that you would leave me."

John Everett looked down at her. "Jane," he said abruptly, "are you already married?"

"Why—why, no," she stammered. "Of course not!"

"Do you love another man?"

"No. But"—haughtily—"you have no right to ask me."

"I beg your pardon, Jane, but I have. Remember that I have asked you to be my wife."

"I am," said Jane, coldly and incisively, "a perfect stranger to you. At present I am a disgraced servant, leaving my place because I am accused of being—a thief."

"Jane, look at me!"

She obeyed him proudly.

"You are the woman I love, dear. I have loved you ever since I saw you that first day. I shall never love anyone else in the whole world. Oh, my poor darling, don't turn away from me; try to love me a little!"

In point of fact, Jane did not offer to turn away from him. Her bruised and lonely heart was filled with sweetest joy and light. And the proud little face uplifted to his was transfigured with the light that never shone on sea or land.

"Won't you try, dear?" he repeated, bending toward her.

"I can never forget," she said slowly, "that you loved me—when—" her tender voice broke piteously—"when all the world despised me."