Still no response.
He hurried round to the side door, knocked loudly there, then on to the kitchen.
Still no sign of life.
He made a circuit of the house, glancing up and down in careful scrutiny of each door and window, till perfectly sure that every one was closely shut.
“What can it mean?” he asked himself half aloud, turning deathly pale and trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Oh, Floy, Floy, I would give my right hand never to have spoken those cruel words! inhuman wretch that I was!”
Waiting a moment to recover himself, he then hastened home. His father had eaten his breakfast and gone to his office; his mother still lingered over the table.
“Oh, Espy,” she said as he came in, “I’m glad to see you. I’ve been keeping the coffee hot; beefsteak too; and Rachel shall bake some fresh cakes. Come and sit down. How dreadfully pale you look! You’ve had too long a walk on an empty stomach.”
He seemed scarcely to hear her; but leaning his back against the wall as if for support, “Mother,” he said hoarsely, “what has become of her? Where is she?”