"Oh yes, to be sure," cordially replied Eliza, her sympathies aroused now. "Poor Katherine Keen! Yes. What _did_ become of her?"
Susan shook her head. It was a question no one could answer.
"I want you to help me to find out," she whispered.
The avowal struck Eliza with a sort of alarm.
"Good gracious!" she cried.
"I want you to help me to find some traces of her--my poor lost sister," continued Susan--"some clue to the mystery of her fate----"
"But what could _I_ do, even if I were willing?" interrupted the housemaid.
"You are inside the house, I am outside," replied Susan, with a sob. "Your chances are greater than mine. Oh, won't you help me? At any moment, when least expected, some link might show itself; the merest accident, as mother says, might put us on the right track. Have you no pity for her?"
"I've a great deal of pity for her; I never heard so strange and pitiful a tale in all my life," was the reply. "Phemie was told all about it when she went into Nullington. But, you know, she may not be dead."
"She is dead," shivered Susan. "Oh, believe that. I am as sure of it as that we two are standing here. At first I didn't believe she was dead; I couldn't: but now that the months have gone on, and on, I feel that there's no hope. If she were alive she would not fail to let us know it to ease our sorrow--all this while! Katherine was more loving and thoughtful than you can tell."