It was long past the hour when, on ordinary nights, Oak Knowe would have been in darkness, relieved only by a glimmer here and there, at the head of some stairway, and in absolute stillness.

But the Hallowe’en party had made everything give way and the servants were up late, putting the great Assembly Hall into the spotless order required for the routine of the next day.

Nut shells and scattered pop corn, apple-skins that had been tossed over the merrymakers’ shoulders to see what initial might be formed, broken masks that had been discarded, fragments of the flimsy costumes, splashes of spilled cider, scattered crumbs and misplaced furniture, made Dawkins and her aids lift hands in dismay as, armed with brooms and scrubbing brushes they came to “clear up.”

“Clear up, indeed! Never was such a mess as this since ever I set foot at Oak Knowe. After the sweepin’ the scrubbin’; and after the scrubbin’ the polishin’, and the chair fetchin’ and—my heart! ’Tis the dear bit lassie she is, but may I be further afore Dorothy Dixie gets up another Hallowe’en prank!” grumbled Dawkins, yet with a tender smile on her lips, remembering the thousand and one trifles which the willing girl had done for her.

For Dawkins was growing old. Under her maid’s cap the hair was thin and gray, and stooping to pick up things the girls had carelessly thrown down was no longer an easy task.

The rules against carelessness were stringent enough and fairly well obeyed, yet among three hundred lively girls some rules were bound to be ignored. But from the first, as soon as she understood them, Dorothy had been obedient to all these rules; and it was Dawkins’s pride, when showing visitors through the building to point to Dolly’s cubicle as a model. Here was never an article left out of place; because not only school regulations but real affection for the maid, who had been her first friend at Oak Knowe, made Dorothy “take care.”

Then busy at their tasks, the workers talked of the evening’s events and laughingly recalled the incident of the goat, which they had witnessed from the upper gallery; a place prepared for them by the good Bishop’s orders, that nobody at his great school should be prohibited from enjoying a sight of the pupils’ frequent entertainments.

“But sure, ’tis that lad, Jack, which frets me as one not belongin’ to Oak Knowe,” said Dora, with conviction.

“Not belonging? Why, woman alive, he’s been here longer nor yourself. ’Twas his mother that’s gone, was cook here before the chef and pity for his orphaned state the reason he’s stayed since. But I own ye, he’s not been bettered by his summers off, when the school’s not keepin’ and him let work for any farmer round. I note he’s a bit more prankish an’ disobliging, every fall when he comes back. For some curious reason—I can’t dream what—he’s been terrible chummy with Miss Gwendolyn. Don’t that beat all?” said Dawkins whirling her brush.

“I don’t know—I don’t really know as ’tis. He’s forever drawing pictures round of every created thing, and she’s come across him doin’ it. She’s that crazy for drawing herself that she’s likely took an int’rest in him. I heard her puttin’ notions in his head, once, tellin’ him how ’t some the greatest painters ever lived had been born just peasants like him.”

“Huh! Was that what made him so top-lofty and up-steppin’? When I told him he didn’t half clean the young ladies’ shoes, tossin’ his head like the simpleton he is, and saucin’ back as how he wouldn’t be a boot-boy all his life. I’d find out one these days whom I’d been tongue-lashin’ so long and’d be ashamed to look him in the face. Huh!” added another maid.

“Well, why bother with such as him, when we’ve all this to finish, and me to go yet to my dormitory to see if all’s right with my young ladies,” answered Dawkins and silence fell, till the task was done and the great room in the perfect order required for the morning.

Then away to her task above hurried good Dawkins and coming to Dorothy’s cubicle found its bed still untouched and its light brightly burning. The maid stared and gasped. What did this mean? Had harm befallen her favorite?

Then she smiled at her own fears. Of course, Dorothy was in the room with little Grace, where the cot once prepared for her still remained because the child had so begged; in “hopes I’ll be sick some more and Dolly’ll come again.” So Dawkins turned off the light and hurried to her reclining chair in the outer hall, where she usually spent the hours of her watch.

But no sooner had she settled herself there than all her uneasiness returned. Twisting and turning on her cushions she fretted:

“I don’t see what’s got into this chair, the night! Seems if I can’t get a comfortable spot in it anywhere. Maybe, it’s ’cause I’m extra tired. Hallowe’en pranks are fun for the time but there’s a deal hard work goes along with ’em. Or any other company fixings, for that matter. I wonder was the little Grace scared again, by that ridic’lous goat? Is that why Dorothy went with her? Where’d the beast come from, anyway? And who invited it to the masquerade? Not the good Bishop, I’ll be bound. Now, what does make me so uneasy! Sure there’s nought wrong with dear little Dixie. How could there be under this safe roof?”

But the longer Dawkins pondered the matter the more restless she grew; till, at last, she felt she must satisfy her mind, even at the cost of disturbing the Lady Principal; and a moment later tapped at her door, asking softly:

“Are you awake, Miss Muriel? It’s Dawkins.”

“Yes, Dawkins, come in. I’ve not been able to sleep yet. I suppose the evening’s care and excitement has tired me too much. What is it you want? Anything wrong in the dormitory?”

“Well, not to say wrong—or so I hope. I just stepped here to ask is Miss Dorothy Calvert staying the night?”

“Staying with Grace? No, indeed, the child has been asleep for hours: perfectly satisfied now that I and so many others have seen the apparition she had, and so proved her the truthful little creature she’d always been.”

That seemed a very long answer to impatient Dawkins and she clipped it short by asking:

“Then, Ma’am, where do you suppose she is?”

“What? Do you mean that she isn’t in her own place?”

“No, Ma’am, nor sign of her; and it’s terr’ble strange, ’pears to me. I don’t like the look of it, Ma’am, I do not.”

“Pooh! don’t make a mystery out of it, my good woman!” replied Miss Tross-Kingdon, yet with a curious flutter in her usually stern voice. Then she considered the matter for a moment, finally directing:

“Go to the hospital wing and ask if she’s there with Gwendolyn. She’s been so sorry for the girl and I noticed her slipping out of Assembly with a plate full of the things Mr. Gilpin brought. I don’t remember her coming back, but she was certainly absent when her violin was asked for. Doubtless, you’ll find her there, but be careful not to rouse any of the young ladies. Then come back and report.”

Dawkins tip-toed away, glad that she had told her anxiety to her mistress. But she was back from her errand before it seemed possible she could be, her face white and her limbs trembling with fear of—she knew not what!

“If it was any girl but her, Ma’am! That keeps the rules better nor any other here!”

“Hush, good Dawkins. She’s all right somewhere, as we shall soon discover. We’ll go below and look in all the rooms, in case she might be ill, or locked in some of them.”

“Yes, yes, Ma’am, we’ll look. Ill she might really be after all them nuts an’ trash, but locked in she can’t be, since never a lock is turned in this whole house. Sure the Bishop wouldn’t so permit, seeing that if it fired any time them that was locked up could not so easy get out. And me the last one down, to leave all in the good order you like.”

“Step softly still, Dawkins. It would take very little to start a panic among our many girls should they hear that anything was amiss.”

Each took a candle from the rack in the hall and by the soft light of these began their search below, not daring to flash on the electric lights whose brilliance might possibly arouse the sleepers in the house. Dawkins observed that the Lady Principal, walking ahead, was shaking, either with cold or nervousness, and, as for herself, her teeth were fairly chattering.

Of course their search proved useless. Nowhere in any of those first floor rooms was any trace of the missing girl. Even closets were examined while Dawkins peered behind the furniture and curtains, her heart growing heavier each moment.

Neither mistress nor maid spoke now, though the former led the way upwards again and silently inspected the dormitories on each floor. Also, she looked into each private room of the older and wealthier pupils, but the result was the same—Dorothy had as completely disappeared as if she had been bodily swallowed up.

Then the aid of the other maids and, even of a few teachers was secured, although that the school work might go on regularly the next day, not many of these latter were disturbed.

At daybreak, when the servants began to gather in the great kitchen, each to begin his daily tasks, the Lady Principal surprised them by her appearance among them. In the briefest and quietest manner possible she told them what had happened and begged their help in the search.

But she was unprepared for the result. A housemaid threw up her hands in wild excitement, crying: “’Tis ten long years I’ve served Oak Knowe but my day is past! Her that went some syne was the wise one. I’ll not tarry longer to risk the health o’ me soul in a house that’s haunted by imps!”

“Nor me! Him that’s snatched off to his wicked place the sweet, purty gell, of the willin’ word an’ friendly smile, ’ll no long spare such as me! A fine collectin’ ground for the Evil One is so big a school as this. I’m leavin’ the dustin’ to such as can do it, but I’m off, Ma’am, and better times for ye, I’m sure!” cried another superstitious creature.

This was plain mutiny. For a moment the lady’s heart sank at the prospect before her, for the panic would spread if not instantly quelled, and there were three hundred hungry girls awaiting breakfast—and breakfast but one feature of the case. Should these servants leave, to spread their untrue tales, new ones would be almost impossible to obtain. Then, summoning her authority, she demanded:

“Silence and attention from all of you. I shall telephone for the constabulary, and any person who leaves Oak Knowe before Miss Calvert is found will leave it for the lock-up. The housemaids are excused from ordinary duties and are to assist the chef in preparing breakfast. The rest of you, who have retained your common sense, are to spread yourselves about the house and grounds, and through every outbuilding till some one of you shall find the girl you all have loved. Leave before then? I am ashamed of your hard hearts.”

With stately dignity the mistress left the kitchen and a much subdued force of helpers behind her. That threat of “the constabulary” was an argument not to be defied.

“Worst of it is, she meant it. Lady Principal never says a thing she doesn’t mean. So—Well, I suppose I’ll have to stay, then, for who wants to get took up? But it’s hard on a workin’ woman ’t she can’t do as she likes,” muttered the first deserter and set about her duties. Also, as did she so did the others.

Meanwhile how had the night passed with the imprisoned Dorothy? At first with greater anger than fear; anger against the unknown person who had shut that door upon her. Then she thought:

“But of course he didn’t know, whoever it was. I’m sure it was a man or boy, afraid, maybe, to make a noise account of its being late. Yet what a fix I’m in! Nobody will know or come to let me out till Dawkins goes her rounds and that’ll be very, very late, on account of her clearing up the mess we made down in Assembly. My! what a fine time we had! And how perfectly grand that Gwendolyn and I should be friends at last. She kissed me. Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard kissed me! It’s worth even being shut up here alone, behind that spring-locked door, just to be friends. I’m so sleepy. I wish I could find something to put around me and I’d lie right down on this floor and take a nap till somebody lets me out.”

Then she remembered that once she had heard Dawkins telling another maid that there were “plenty more blankets in the old drying-room if her ‘beds’ needed ’em;” and maybe she could find some if she tried.

“This is the very darkest place could ever be, seems if! ouch! that hurt!” said the prisoner aloud, to bolster her own courage, and as she stumbled against a trunk that bruised her ankle. “I’ll take more care.”

So she did: reasoning that people generally piled things against a wall, that is, in such a place, for greater convenience. With outstretched hands she felt her way and at last was rewarded by finding the blankets she sought. Here, too, were folded several cots, that were needed at times, like Commencement, when many strangers were at Oak Knowe. But she didn’t trouble to set up one of these, even if she could have done so in that gloom. But a blanket she could manage, and beside the cots she could feel a heap of them. In a very few minutes she had pulled down several of these and spread them on the floor; and a little later had wrapped them about her and was sound asleep—“as a bug in a rug, like Dawkins says,” her last, untroubled thought. So, though a prisoner, for many hours she slumbered peacefully.

Down in the breakfast-room matters went on as usual. Or if many of the girls and a few of the pupils seemed unduly sleepy, that was natural enough, considering the frivolities and late hours of the night before.

Even the Lady Principal, sitting calmly in her accustomed place, looked very pale and tired; and Winifred, observing this, whispered to her neighbor:

“I don’t believe we’ll get another party very soon. Just look at Miss Tross-Kingdon. She’s as white as a ghost and so nervous she can hardly sit still. I never saw her that way before. The way she keeps glancing toward the doors, half-scared every time she hears a noise, is queer. I wonder if she’s expecting somebody!”

“Likely somebody’s late and she’s waiting to say: ‘Miss’—whoever it is—‘your excuse, please?’ I wonder who ’twill be! and say, look at the Aldrich ten—can you see Dorothy?”

Winifred glanced around and answered, with real surprise: “Why, she’s absent! If it were I nobody’d be astonished, ’cause I always have the same excuse: ‘Overslept.’ But Dolly? Oh! I hope she isn’t sick!”

And immediately the meal was over, Winifred hurried to the Lady Principal and asked:

“Please, Miss Muriel, can you tell me, is Dorothy Calvert ill?”

“Excuse me, Winifred, I am extremely busy,” returned Miss Tross-Kingdon, and hurried away as if she were afraid of being questioned further.

Naturally, Winifred was surprised, for despite her sternness the Lady Principal was invariably courteous; and putting “two and two together” she decided that Dorothy was in trouble of some sort and began a systematic inquiry of all she met concerning her. But nobody had seen the girl or knew anything about her; yet the questioner’s anxiety promptly influenced others and by the time school session was called there was a wide-spread belief that some dreadful thing had befallen the southerner, and small attention was paid to lessons.

It was not until the middle of the morning that Jack-boot-boy appeared in the kitchen, from his room in an outside building, where the men servants slept. He was greeted by reproofs for his tardiness and the news of Dorothy’s disappearance.

“Lost? Lost, you say? How can she be right here in this house? Why, I saw her around all evening. It was her own party, wasn’t it? or hers was the first notion of it. Huh! That’s the queerest! S’pose the faculty’ll offer a reward? Jiminy cricket! Wish they would! I bet I’d find her. Why, sir, I’d make a first rate detective, I would. I’ve been readin’ up on that thing an’ I don’t know but it would pay me better’n paintin’, even if I am a ‘born artist,’ as Miss Gwendolyn says.”

“Born nincompoop! That’s what you are, and the all-conceitedest lazybones ’t ever trod shoe leather! Dragging out of bed this time o’ day, and not a shoe cleaned—in my dormitory, anyway!” retorted Dawkins, in disgust.

“Huh! old woman, what’s the matter with you? And why ain’t you in bed, ’stead of out of it? I thought all you night-owls went to bed when the rest of us got up. You need sleep, you do, for I never knowed you crosser’n you be now—which is sayin’ consid’able!”

Dawkins was cross, there was no denying that, for her nerves were sadly shaken by her fears for the girl she had learned to love so dearly.

“You get about your business, boy, at once; without tarryin’ to pass remarks upon your betters;” and she made a vicious dash toward him as if to strike him. He knew this was only pretence, and sidled toward her, mockingly, then, as she raised her hand again—this time with more decision—he cowered aside and made a rush out of the kitchen.

“Well, that’s odd! The first time I ever knew that boy to turn down his breakfast!” remarked the chef, pointing to a heaped up plate at the back of the range. “Well, I shan’t keep it any longer. He’ll have the better appetite for dinner, ha, ha!”

Jack’s unusual indifference to good food was due to a sound he had overheard. It came from somewhere above and passed unnoticed by all but him, but set him running to a distant stairway which led from “the old laundry” to the drying-loft above: and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him as he saw that the door of this was shut.

“Lucky for me, that is! I was afraid they’d been looking here for that Calvert girl, but they haven’t, ’cause the lock ain’t broke and the key’s in my pocket,” said he, in a habit he had of talking to himself.

The noise beyond the door increased, and worried him, and he hurriedly sought the key where he usually carried it. The door could be, and had been, closed by a spring, but it needed that key to open it, as he had boastingly remembered. Unhappy lad! In not one of his many and ragged pockets could that key now be found! While in the great room beyond the noise grew loud, and louder, with each passing second and surely would soon be heard by all the house. Under the circumstances nobody would hesitate to break that hateful lock to learn the racket’s cause; yet what would happen to him when this was discovered?

What, indeed! Yet, strangely enough, in all his trepidation there was no thought of Dorothy.