CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred Is Gone!"
"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred is gone, Mildred is gone!" cried Constance, ringing her hands despairingly.
"Gone," he breathed, uncomprehendingly.
"Yes, gone." His sister sank into a chair, and gave up to a flood of tears.
"But why?" he cried, only now seeming to understand that she had actually left them.
"I don't know, I don't know," she moaned.
"This is certainly a mystery. Surely dear, you are mistaken," he insisted, greatly disturbed. "Mildred would surely not have left us so unceremoniously. And, besides—why, she—she, Constance, why she gave one hundred and fifty dollars to the Christian association movement only today. And you cannot mean that she has gone! It is hardly possible!"
"I only wish it were not so; but come," and, taking his hand, she led him to the room Mildred had occupied. It was deserted, save for the furniture that belonged there. Only once had he seen the inside of it while she occupied it. And now it did not appear the same; because then, it was decorated with much lace and woman's needle work and picture postals. But, strange as he had thought, when he happened to glance into it before, there were no pictures of girls and men, young or old, nobody excepting the picture of the author of the book which she sold, and which had been taken from the frontispiece.
"This is the way I found it when I came home a few minutes ago," she said, resigned. "I cannot make it out; I cannot make anything out, except that the sweetest friend, the dearest girl I ever knew, has disappeared strangely."