Poor Tom went to pieces more than once in the days that followed—dreadful days of panic and despair. Old Chester, aroused at daybreak by the terrified father, decided at once that the boy was drowned; but everybody stood ready to help the stricken parents with hopeful words to the contrary, words which rang as hollow to Thomas and his wife as to the well-meaning liars.
It was on Wednesday that he had disappeared. On Friday they dragged the river through the open holes; on Saturday, blew up the ice and dragged all the way down to the second bend. That night Nancy and Mary crept away to cry in their own room; Tom sat with his head buried in his arms; his wife knelt beside him, touching him sometimes with a quiet hand, but never speaking. Dr. Lavendar came in and put his hand on Tom's shoulder for a minute, and then went away. The firelight slipped flickering about the room; sometimes the coal in the grate snapped and chuckled, and a spurt of flame shone on the two suddenly aged faces. And then into the silent room came, with hurried, shamefaced triumph—Edwin.
"I—I'm afraid you've been anxious—"
"He ought to have written," said another voice, breathless and uncertain, and breaking into nervous laughter. "It is naughty in him to have forgotten. I—I told him so."
Thomas Dilworth lifted his head and stared, silently; but his wife broke out into wild laughter and streaming tears; she ran and threw herself on Edwin's breast, her throat strangling with sobs.
"Oh—she's found Neddy! She has brought him back to us!—she has found him! Oh, Miss Hayes, God bless you—God bless you! Oh, where did you find him?"
Miss Hayes opened her lips—then bit the lower one, and stood, scarlet.
"I meant to write," Edwin began to explain—"of course I meant to write, but—"
"Oh, dear Mrs. Dilworth," Helen's fluttering voice took up the excuse, "you must forgive him"—she came as though to put her arms about Ned's mother. "After all, a bridegroom, you know—"
Milly lifted her head from Edwin's shoulder and gaped at her.