An hour passed. The sunshine grew warmer, the bees hummed, the butterflies with bright wings hovered round the roses; but neither Earle nor Doris returned.
Earle hurried on the road to Quainton. As he crossed the high-road he saw a man breaking stones. He went up to him and asked him if he had seen a young lady pass by.
"No; he had been to work there since five in the morning, but no one had passed by."
"Strange," thought Earle; "but he is old and half blind—most probably he did not see her; yet, with her bright, lovely face, and hair like threads of gold, how could he miss her?"
He walked on until he came to the toll-bar. Outside the pretty, white-gabled cottage a woman sat knitting in the sunshine. To her Earle went, with the same question—"Had she seen a young lady pass by?"
"No." She had been there since seven, knitting and keeping the gate. There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young lady had passed by that gate since seven.
He did not understand it, and a vague uneasiness came over him. Still he walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the post-office he found men busily repairing the outer wall—they had been at work some hours. From them he asked the same question—"Had they seen a young lady who had come to post letters?"
"No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young lady.
"Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; "my darling has not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is waiting for me now at home."
He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers, he stopped and cried aloud: "Doris."