The result was to increase Mrs. Balcome's sorrow. "Oh, my poor Hattie!" she wept. "My poor child!" She pulled at the cord about the bundle, and Balcome halted behind her to look on. "Here is another gift for her wedding! Oh, how pitiful! How pitiful! A present from someone who loves her! Who thought the dear child would be happy! Something sweet and dainty"—the wrapping paper was torn off by now—"to brighten her new home! Something——"
A cover came off. And there, full in Mrs. Balcome's sight, lay a good-sized, and very rosy Kewpie—blessed with little raiment but many charms.
"Baa-a-a-ah!"—a gesture of disgust, and the Kewpie was cast upon the lawn.
Wallace came hurrying from the house. He looked more bent than usual, and if possible more pale. His clothes indicated that he had slept in them.
Balcome charged toward him. "Where's my daughter?" he asked, with a head-to-foot look, much as if he suspicioned the younger man with having Hattie concealed somewhere about him.
"Wallace!" Mrs. Balcome held out stout arms to the newcomer.
Wallace went to her. "I tried and tried to telephone her," he answered. "And they told me they don't know where she is. So I've come.—Oh, is it all right? What does she say? I want to see her!"
"She's gone!" informed Balcome, his voice hollow.
"She's gone! She's gone!" echoed Mrs. Balcome. She shook the stone bench.
"Gone?" Wallace clapped a hand to his forehead.