Mrs. Orban rushed to Becky's bed. She was standing beside it as if petrified when the others entered. The bed was empty. This was no dream. Becky really and truly was not there.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WITCH.
Of course Peter's story jumped to every one's mind, and with a horrified cry Mrs. Orban fell forward, fainting, on to the empty bed.
The recent hunt through the house had been, as Eustace guessed, a greater strain than she had allowed any one to see; she could not be certain that they were on a wild-goose chase. This, coming on the top of it, was just too much for her.
Instances of children being stolen had from time to time come to her knowledge—stories of little ones silently, mysteriously disappearing and never being heard of again. The twins had heard the same from the servants, among other disturbing stories. This last terrible event seemed just to prove that the first visitor had been no mere plantation hand; the stealing of a baby was more like the work of the native blacks.
Nesta wrung her hands and wept. Eustace dashed away to fetch Robertson. Mary lost her head completely, and nobody thought of trying to restore poor Mrs. Orban to consciousness till motherly little Mrs. Robertson appeared on the scene.
Robertson stood in the middle of the room looking the picture of bewilderment.
"This beats everything," he said in an awed voice.
Every one was really too terrified to make a noise. Puzzled glances were exchanged, questions whispered, and Robertson said again,—