I turned, as usual, to watch the upward, curling smoke from Mary's kitchen fire. Strange to say, this morning there was no smoke.
"Taking a rest," I thought, "after her long watching and nursing over a good-for-nought like me! Ah, well!—I shall breakfast first then I shall pay my respects and ask forgiveness of the lady for 'the things I have done that I ought not to have done,' and all will be well."
I hurried over that porridge, and bacon and eggs. I dressed with scrupulous care, even to the donning of a soft, white, linen collar with a flowing tie.
"Surely," I reasoned, "she can never be cruel to me in this make-up."
When I started out, all seemed quiet and still over there at Mary Grant's.
With a feeling of disrupting foreboding, which dashed all my merriment aside, I quickened my footsteps.
The windows were closed; the door was shut tight. I knocked, but no answer came. I tried the door:—it was locked.
"Why! What can it be?" I asked myself.
My roving eyes lit on a piece of white paper pinned to the far post of the veranda. It was in pencil, in Mary's handwriting.
"George,