The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white spectral, [p292] beckoning thing, but no sound broke the stillness.
“Kippy!” he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.
From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: “Kippy! Kippy!”
At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him from Coreyville.
As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a portion of one of [p293] Guinevere’s letters, written in the girl’s clear, round hand:
Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the asylum.
Mr. Opp got to his feet. “She’s read the letter,” he cried wildly; “she’s learned out about herself! Maybe she’s in the woods now, or down on the bank!” He rushed to the porch. “Kippy!” he shouted. “Don’t be afraid! Brother D.’s coming to get you! Don’t run away, Kippy! Wait for me! Wait!” and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.
Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for the Insane and heard the story of his sister’s wanderings. Her boat had evidently been [p294] washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name was “Oxety,” and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.
“Considering all things,” he concluded, “it is much wiser for you not to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming on, and wanted to be taken care of.”
He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of insanity.