“Indeed, Sir! it is no joke,” answered Mrs. Crabtree, sulkily; “I am almost afraid Master Harry has been burned in the fire! The last time Betty saw him, he was throwing a jug of water into the flames, and no one has ever seen or heard of him since! There is a great many ashes and cinders lying about the room, and——”

“Do you think, in sober seriousness, Mrs. Crabtree, that Harry would melt away like a wax doll, without asking any body to extinguish him?” said Major Graham, smiling. “No! no! little boys are not quite so easily disposed of. I shall find Harry in less than five minutes, if he is above ground.”

But uncle David was quite mistaken in expecting to discover Harry so easily, for he searched and searched in vain. He looked into every possible or impossible place—the library, the kitchen, the garrets, the laundry, the drawing-room, all without success,—he peeped under the tables, behind the curtains, over the beds, beneath the pillows, and into Mrs. Crabtree’s bonnet-box,—he even opened the tea-chest, and looked out at the window, in case Harry had tumbled over, but nowhere could he be found.

“Not a mouse is stirring!” exclaimed Major Graham, beginning now to look exceedingly grave and anxious. “This is very strange! The house-door is locked, therefore, unless Harry made his escape through the key-hole, he must be here! It is most unaccountable what the little pickle can have done with himself!”

When Major Graham chose to exert his voice, it was as loud as a trumpet, and could be heard half a mile off; so he now called out, like thunder, from the top of the stairs to the [43] ]bottom, saying, “Hollo, Harry! hollo! Come here, my boy! Nobody shall hurt you! Harry! where are you!”

Uncle David waited to listen, but all was still,—no answer could be heard, and there was not a sound in the house, except poor Laura at the bottom of the stairs, sobbing with grief and terror about Harry having been lost, and Mrs. Crabtree grumbling angrily to herself, on account of the large hole in her best gown.

By this time Lady Harriet nearly fainted with fatigue, for she was so very old, and had been ill all day; so she grew worse and worse, till everybody said she must go to bed, and try if it would be possible to fall asleep, assuring her that Harry must soon be found, as nothing particular could have happened to him, or some person would have seen it.

“Indeed, my lady! Master Harry is just like a bad shilling that is sure to come back,” said Mrs. Crabtree, helping her to undress, while she continued to talk the whole time about the fire, showing her own unfortunate gown, describing the trouble she had taken to save the house from being burned, and always ending every sentence with a wish that she could lay her hands on Harry to punish him as he deserved.

“The truth is, I just spoil and indulge the children too much, my lady!” added Mrs. Crabtree, in a self-satisfied tone of voice. “I really blame myself often for being over easy and kind.”

“You have nothing to accuse yourself of in that respect,” answered Lady Harriet, unable to help smiling.