The breakfast next morning was hurried through, for neither Alice nor Frederic could eat, and Mrs. Russell, when she saw how much was left untouched, congratulated herself upon its answering for the hired man’s dinner, and thus giving her a nice long time for sewing.
“It isn’t a bit likely Miss Grey will come to-day,” said Alice, as she followed Frederic to the carriage; and, confident of this, they gave Miss Grey no further thought, but went on their way in search of Marian. When they reached New York, Frederic, who had some business to transact, left Alice in the parlor at the Astor, where she sat with her face to the window, just as though she could see the passers-by; and, as she sat there, a party who were leaving glanced hastily in, all seeing the little figure by the window, and one thinking to herself, “She wears her hair combed back, as Alice used to do!”
Then the group passed on, while over the face of the blind girl there flitted for an instant a wondering, bewildering expression, for her quick ear had caught the sound of a voice which, it seemed to her, she had heard before—not there—not in New York—but far away, at Redstone Hall. What was it? Who was it? She bent her head to listen, hoping to hear it again, but it came no more, for Marian Grey had left the house, and was passing up Broadway. It was not long ere Frederic returned, and, taking Alice’s hand, he led her into the street, and entered a Third avenue car.
“We are on the right track, I think,” he said; “for it was this way she went with the man described by Sarah Green.”
Alice gave a sigh of relief, and, leaning against Frederic, rather enjoyed the pleasant motion of the car, although she wished it would go faster.
“Won’t we ever get there?” she asked, as they plodded slowly on, stopping often to take in a passenger, or set one down.
“Yes, by and by,” said Frederic, encouragingly. “I am not quite certain of the street, myself, but I shall know it when I see the name, of course;” and he looked anxiously out as they passed along. “Here it is!” he cried, at last; and, seizing Alice’s arm, he rather dragged than led her from the car, and out upon the crossing. “Why,” he exclaimed, gazing eagerly around him, “I have been here before—down this very street;” and his eye wandered involuntarily in the direction of the window where once the white fringed curtain hung.
It was gone now, as was the rose geranium. The kitten, too, was gone, and the small hand resting on it; while in their place appeared the heads of two or three dirty children, looking across the way, and making wry faces at similar dirty children in the window opposite. Frederic saw all this, and it affected him unpleasantly, causing him to feel as if he had parted from some old friend. But no; where was that? It must be in this locality; and he wondered how one accustomed to the luxuries of Redstone Hall could live in this place so long.
“I’ve found it!” he said, as his eye caught the number; and now, that he believed himself near to what he had sought so long, he was more impatient than Alice herself.
He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, and pale with excitement, he caught her in his arms and hurried up the narrow stairs, which many a time had creaked to Marian’s tread. The third story was reached at last, and he stood panting by the door, where Mr. Jennings had said that he must stop. It was open, and the greasy, uncarpeted floor, of which he caught a glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, but it did not keep him back a moment, and he advanced into the room, which, by the three heads at the window, he knew was the same where the white curtain once had hung, and where now the glaring August sunlight came pouring in, unbroken and unsubdued.