Having expended his affections and all his spare time on Mita,—who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,—Mr Twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen Sammy yet.
“No, sir, I hain’t.”
“Are you sure he’s not in his room?”
“Well, no, sir, but I knocked twice and got no answer.”
“Very odd; Sammy didn’t use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly,” said Mr Twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son.
Obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. More than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that Sammy’s bed was unruffled, so that Sammy himself must have slept elsewhere!
In silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, “Mariar, Sammy’s gone!”
“Dead!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter with a look of horror.
“No, no; not dead, but gone—gone out of the house. Did not sleep in it last night, apparently.”
Poor Mrs Twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face.