A whole week had passed, and there were no tidings whatever of little Nan or of Annie Forest. No one at Lavender House had heard a word about them; the police came and went, detectives even arrived from London, but there were no traces whatever of the missing children.
The Midsummer holiday was now close at hand, but no one spoke of it or thought of it. Mrs Willis told the teachers that the prizes should be distributed, but she said she could invite no guests and could allow of no special festivities. Miss Danesbury and Miss Good repeated her words to the school-girls, who answered without hesitation that they did not wish for feasting and merriment; they would rather the day passed unnoticed. In truth, the fact that their baby was gone, that their favourite and prettiest and brightest school-mate had also disappeared, caused such gloom, such distress, such apprehension that even the most thoughtless of those girls could scarcely have laughed or been merry. School-hours were still kept after a fashion, but there was no life in the lessons. In truth, it seemed as if the sun would never shine again at Lavender House.
Hester was ill; not very ill—she had no fever, she had no cold; she had, as the good doctor explained it, nothing at all wrong, except that her nervous system had got a shock.
“When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again,” said the good doctor: but the little one had not been found yet, and Hester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little or nothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girls were kind to her, and each one in the school took turns in trying to comfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even Mrs Willis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart.
Mr Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many words when Hester broke into an agony of weeping, and begged him to go away. He shook his head when he left her, and said sadly to himself—
“That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more than the loss of her little sister.”
The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups in the pleasant, shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up day they were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned to school again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple, Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together, and whispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously—
“I don’t think the doctor is satisfied about Hester. Perhaps I ought not to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury just now; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have a composing draught to-night.”
“I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all,” said Cecil; “I wish she would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie will be found yet.”
“Have you been praying about it, Cecil?” asked Mary, kneeling on the grass, laying her elbows on Cecil’s knees, and looking into her face. “Do you say this because you have faith?”