Mr. and Mrs. Churchill returned to Woodside late on the following evening, and were both somewhat surprised not to find May up to receive them. The two boys, however, were.

“May has gone to bed with a bad headache,” said Hal, with a grin, for the information of his stepmother.

“I think she should have sat up; it is only proper respect to us,” retorted Mrs. Churchill.

“Not if she is ill, my dear,” said Mr. Churchill, who somehow missed seeing his pretty daughter.

Mrs. Churchill said nothing more on the subject. She ate her supper and arranged “the things” that she had brought from Castle Hill to her own satisfaction, and then retired for the night, well satisfied with herself and what she had done during the day.

And the next morning she rose early, as was her usual practice, and began her healthful daily life with her accustomed energy. At half-past eight o’clock she and her husband and the two boys were seated at the well-spread breakfast table, but still May had not appeared.

“Ring the breakfast bell again, Hal,” directed Mrs. Churchill presently. “I can not have May lying in bed all day.”

The breakfast bell was rung for the second time, but it failed to bring May down-stairs. Therefore, after she had finished her own excellent breakfast with excellent appetite, Mrs. Churchill said she would go upstairs to see after her stepdaughter.

“I’ll not take her up any tea, as she may be only idling,” she remarked, as she rose from the table; “but I’ll see what is really the matter with her.”

She accordingly went upstairs and rapped at May’s bedroom door. There was no reply, so Mrs. Churchill opened it and went in.

One glance at the bed showed her that it had not been slept in; another glance around the room told her it was empty.

Mrs. Churchill felt half-frightened. Again she looked around, and this time her eyes fell on a letter lying on the toilet-table. She approached the toilet-table and took up the letter. It was directed to her husband, and it was sealed, and Mrs. Churchill knew at once that something very serious had happened.

She hurried out of the room carrying the letter with her. As she descended the staircase she saw her husband in the hall, about to open the front door, for the purpose of leaving the house.

“William!” she called, and waved the letter, and when Mr. Churchill noticed the expression of her face he at once turned back to meet her.

“Come in here,” she said, opening the dining-room door, and putting her hand on her husband’s arm as she spoke. The dining-room was empty and Mrs. Churchill closed the door behind them.

“William,” she said, when they were alone, “May is not in her room; the bed has never been slept in, and she has left this letter lying on the toilet-table for you.”

“Good heavens! What can be the matter?” exclaimed Mr. Churchill; and he proceeded to tear open the letter, and read it eagerly, while his wife peered over his shoulder trying to do so too.

And this was what he read:

“My Dear Father: You told me once that you did not wish me to remain in your house if I could not treat your wife with the respect which you considered was her due. I find I can not do this; nor can I endure any longer the, to me, odious visits of Mr. Henderson. I am, therefore, going away, and you need not be afraid for my future life. I should not have left you if I did not know that you had someone to look after you and care for you, but this I am sure you have. Be kind to the two dear boys, and believe me to remain still, your affectionate daughter.

May.”

Mr. Churchill’s clear bronzed complexion flushed darkly as he read this letter and comprehended its meaning.

“What do you think of that?” he asked, handing it to his wife.

Then Mrs. Churchill read the letter fully, and her clear skin also flushed as she did so.

“She has run away with someone,” she said, as she finished the letter. “She tried to put the blame on me, but that is an excuse—she has gone with some lover.”

“She has no lover that I know of but young Henderson,” replied Mr. Churchill, somewhat hoarsely. He was terribly upset by May’s letter, remembering the words which he himself had used to his young daughter, and to which she had referred.

“She was sure to have lovers,” continued Mrs. Churchill. “You may not know of them. Who can tell? It may be someone beneath her.”

“You don’t know May when you say that!” said Mr. Churchill, angrily. “May is a thorough little lady whatever she is. She would not look at anyone beneath her.”

“Yet such things have been.”

“May would do nothing of the sort; I know that,” positively asserted her father. “And how do we know that she has gone away with anyone? Most likely gone on some wild-goose chase because she could not get on with you.”

“Oh! try to blame me. That’s just like a man.”

“I am not blaming you; but I won’t have anything of that kind said of my girl. May held herself too high for that.”

Mrs. Churchill did not speak. She drew in her firm lips. She bore a fresh grudge against May.

“Where are the boys? The boys may know something about this?” now said Mr. Churchill.

The boys were accordingly called into the dining-room. Will went innocently, but Hal with a guilty conscience, which, however, he was prepared to disguise.

“When did you last see your sister yesterday?” asked Mr. Churchill, sternly.

“We had tea with her at five o’clock,” answered Will; “and after that I did not see her.”

“And you, Hal?”

“I saw her a bit later, and she was going out for a walk then,” replied the boy; “and she said she had a headache and would go to bed directly she came in, and would not sit up for you—and that I was to tell you so.”

“And you did not see her again?”

“No, I went out, and when I came back I supposed May had gone to bed as she said she would, for I saw nothing more of her.”

“And she said nothing to you about going away?”

“Not a word,” untruthfully affirmed Hal.

“Yet she is not in the house; she has written to say she has gone away,” said Mr. Churchill.

“Gone away?” repeated Will, in great surprise. “Where has she gone?”

“She does not say where,” answered his father. “This must be seen to at once. Sarah, go and ask the servants if they know anything.”

Mrs. Churchill obeyed her husband, but the servants knew nothing. “Miss,” the housemaid said, had told her she had a headache, and would not sit up to supper. She had not seen her go out, and “miss” had requested her not to go into her room, as she hoped to go to sleep and did not wish to be disturbed.

This was all Mrs. Churchill learned in the kitchen, but when she again went up to May’s bedroom she found that a small leather trunk, that belonged to her, and nearly all her best clothes, had also disappeared. Her flight, therefore, had been clearly premeditated. Someone also must have assisted her, as it was almost impossible that she could have carried away her trunk herself.

Mrs. Churchill went down and told her husband all this, and he once more questioned the boys, but both denied they knew anything about it; Willie truthfully, Hal untruthfully.

“Take my word for it, she has run away with someone,” repeated Mrs. Churchill.

Mr. Churchill now began to think there must be some truth in this. It could not be young Henderson, as she disliked him so much; and then there was Mr. Goodall, the curate—but no, May always laughed at him—and then suddenly Mr. Churchill remembered John Temple, and seeing May and him in the garden together in the moonlight.

He gave a sort of exclamation as the idea struck him, but he said nothing. Mr. John Temple was his landlord’s nephew and heir, and it was a very serious thing to bring any such accusation against him unless he had good grounds for it.

“I will drive over to the station, and see if I can hear anything there,” he said, hastily, and he accordingly did this, and was received in a friendly manner by the station-master, with whom he was well acquainted.

“I want a word with you, Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Churchill, in some agitation.

“Certainly, sir. Come in here,” replied the station-master, leading Mr. Churchill into his private office.

“Did you see anything of my daughter, yesterday?” now asked Mr. Churchill, in an anxious voice.

“Oh, yes, sir, of course; I put her into the quarter-to-six train myself, on her road to London. She told me she was going to pay a visit there.”

“To London?” repeated Mr. Churchill; and he turned so pale that the station-master grew alarmed.

“Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?” he said.

“No,” answered Mr. Churchill, with a sort of gasp. “The truth is, Johnson—don’t mention this—but I’m afraid my daughter and my new wife did not get on over-well, and I think the foolish girl must have run away from home. Was she alone when she came to the station?”

“Quite alone, sir,” answered the station-master. “In the afternoon a boy brought a trunk and said it had to wait for a young lady who was coming to catch a train. And I just happened to look at the address, and it was ‘Miss Churchill, London.’”

“And that was all?”

“That was all, sir—‘Miss Churchill, London.’ I wondered at the time there was nothing more, but there was not.”

“And the boy who brought the trunk; it was not one of my boys, was it?”

“Oh, dear, no, sir! I know both your boys quite well. This was a common sort of lad in a fustian jacket, and I don’t think I’d know him again.”

“And she came to the train? How did she look?”

“She came into the station quite cheerful, sir, and she took a second-class fare to London, and I put her into the carriage myself. I asked her if she was going for a long visit, as you see I’ve known her ever since she was a child, and she smiled in her pretty way. ’Yes, Mr. Johnson,’ said she, ‘a long visit;’ and those were her last words to me.”

Mr. Churchill groaned aloud.

“I fear she has run away,” he said, “and as well seek for a needle in a bundle of hay as find anyone in London if they went to hide. Thank you, Johnson. Don’t say anything, but I fear it’s a bad business.”

So Mr. Churchill left the station with a heavy heart, but on the way home he saw the gray walls and towers of Woodlea Hall standing amid the trees in the distance, and again the thought of John Temple recurred to his mind.

“I’ll make some excuse and go and see if he’s there, at any rate,” he decided, and accordingly he turned his horse’s head down the avenue that led to the Hall, and a few minutes later drew up at the back entrance.

“Can I see the squire?” he asked in some agitation.

It was yet early morning, and the squire was still at breakfast. But Mr. Churchill was known to be a favorite tenant, and one of the servants took up a message that he was waiting until the squire could see him. A message came back, would Mr. Churchill go into the library, and Mr. Temple would join him immediately.

This the squire did, and in his quiet, courteous manner held out his hand to Mr. Churchill, who took it nervously.

“I am in sad trouble, sir,” he began.

“I am extremely sorry to hear this, Mr. Churchill,” answered the squire, with real interest.

“It’s about my daughter, sir—”

“What, that pretty girl?” interrupted the squire.

“Yes, May—well, sir, the truth is that May and my new wife didn’t get on over-well together, and we—my wife and I—have been away from home for a couple of days, and when we went to seek May this morning we found she was not in the house. Then I went to the station—I have just been there—and Johnson, the station-master, he says May left last evening by the quarter-to-six train for London, and that’s every word we know about her.”

“And she left no letter? Told no one she was going?”

“Yes, she left a letter for me, to say she was going, and that was all; not a word where she was going to.”

“This is very distressing. Did she say nothing to her brothers?”

“Not a word—and squire, there is something I wanted to ask you—” and then Mr. Churchill hesitated.

“Pray ask me, Mr. Churchill, and if there is anything I can do for you, you may depend on me.”

“Well, sir, you see May and your nephew, Mr. John Temple, were a good bit together about that unfortunate girl’s death at Fern Dene, and I’ve been wondering if he could tell us anything? No offense, you know, squire, only sometimes girls tell their troubles or fancied troubles to other young people, and I thought perhaps she might have said something to Mr. John Temple—that is, if he is at the Hall.”

“He is certainly at the Hall,” replied the squire, gravely. “He returned last Saturday, and is now in the breakfast-room. Would you like to see him?”

“If I might make so bold.”

Mr. Temple rose and rang the bell, and when the footman answered it he said quietly:

“Ask Mr. John Temple kindly to come to the library for a few minutes.”

The footman bowed and disappeared, and a few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between the squire and his tenant. The squire was remembering his advice to John on the subject of May Churchill; her father seeing the two together in the moonlit garden.

Then John Temple appeared, calm, assured, and a little pale.

He shook hands with Mr. Churchill, and then looked at him inquiringly.

“John,” said the squire, as the farmer hesitated, “Mr. Churchill has called here about his daughter; it seems that the young lady disappeared from her home yesterday in the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, and as you were a good deal thrown with her about that unfortunate affair at Fern Dene, Mr. Churchill wishes to know if she ever gave you any hint regarding her intention of leaving her home?”

“Yes, Mr. John, that’s just it; just as the squire says,” put in Mr. Churchill, eagerly.

“Certainly not,” replied John Temple, calmly. “I was, as you say, a good deal thrown with Miss Churchill regarding that unfortunate affair, but she never mentioned anything whatever to me about leaving her home.”

“And she made no complaints?” asked Mr. Churchill.

“None. I think she once said she disliked that young Henderson very much; that was at the inquest.”

“And when did you last see her, Mr. John?”

“I have been away, but I saw her last Sunday at church.”

This was a bold speech, yet John Temple never faltered as he spoke it. He had made up his mind that these inquiries were sure to be made, and he risked the chance that no one had seen his interviews with May on Sunday or Monday.

At all events he convinced both his uncle and Mr. Churchill that he had nothing to do with May’s disappearance. The farmer thanked him and the squire, and then withdrew, and John and his uncle were left alone.

“It’s a strange business,” said the squire, “but I suppose it is the fault of the new wife. This pretty girl has perhaps gone to try her fortune in London, in preference to living at home in uncongenial company. But it’s a pity.”

“Someone told me, I forget who,” answered John, “that the new wife, as you call her, was bent on marrying this pretty girl to that brute young Henderson. In that case one can not wonder at her running away.”

“Well, I hope she’ll come to no trouble; she’s a very pretty girl.”

“Very,” replied John, laconically, and then he turned away; but his uncle noticed that during the rest of the day there was a cloud upon his brow.

Mr. Churchill, in the meanwhile, had returned home, and had told his news to his wife. May had gone to London alone, and the station-master had seen her off, and a strange boy had taken her trunk to the station.

“Then it has been all planned beforehand!” exclaimed Mrs. Churchill. “How deceitful!”

Mr. Churchill said nothing, and was certainly looking anything but happy.

“Will you put it into the hands of the police?” asked Mrs. Churchill.

“No,” answered the farmer, decidedly. “May would have some little money with her—a matter of twenty pounds or so, at least, and she can’t starve for a week or two with that. And when she wants money she can come home. Remember that, Sarah,” he added, emphatically, “whenever my girl wants to come back, she’s welcome here.”