I could not believe my eyes. I opened the
end door leading into the yard, and looked out;
but he was nowhere in sight. I went round to
the back of the baking-houses, looked behind
the furnaces, ran over to the counting-house,
called him by his name over and over again; but
all was dark, silent, lonely, as ever.

Then I remembered how I had bolted the
outer gate, and how impossible it was that he
should have come in without ringing. Then, too,
I began again to doubt the evidence of my own
senses, and to think I must have been dreaming.

I went back to my old post by the door of the
first baking-house, and sat down for a moment
to collect my thoughts.

"In the first place," said I to myself, "there
is but one outer gate. That outer gate I bolted
on the inside, and it is bolted still. In the
next place, I searched the premises, and found
all the sheds empty, and the workshop-doors
padlocked as usual on the outside. I proved
that George was nowhere about, when I came,
and I know he could not have come in since,
without my knowledge. Therefore it is a dream.
It is certainly a dream, and there's an end
of it."

And with this I trimmed my lantern and
proceeded to test the temperature of the furnaces.
We used to do this, I should tell you, by the
introduction of little roughly-moulded lumps of
common fire-clay. If the heat is too great, they
crack; if too little, they remain damp and moist;
if just right, they become firm and smooth all
over, and pass into the biscuit stage. Well! I took
my three little lumps of clay, put one in each
oven, waited while I counted five hundred, and
then went round again to see the results. The
two first were in capital condition, the third had
flown into a dozen pieces. This proved that the
seggars might at once go into ovens One and
Two, but that number Three had been over-
heated, and must be allowed to go on cooling
for an hour or two longer.

I therefore stocked One and Two with nine
rows of seggars, three deep on each shelf; left
the rest waiting till number Three was in a
condition to be trusted; and, fearful of falling
asleep again, now that the firing was in progress,
walked up and down the rooms to keep myself
awake. This was hot work, however, and I
could not stand it very long; so I went back
presently to my stool by the door, and fell to
thinking about my dream. The more I thought
of it, the more strangely real it seemed, and
the more I felt convinced that I was actually
on my feet, when I saw George get up and walk
into the adjoining room. I was also certain
that I had still continued to see him as he
passed out of the second room into the third,
and that, at that time I was even following his
very footsteps. Was it possible, I asked myself,
that I could have been up and moving, and yet
not quite awake? I had heard of people walking
in their sleep. Could it be that I was walking
in mine, and never waked till I reached the
cool air of the yard? All this seemed likely
enough, so I dismissed the matter from my mind,
and passed the rest of the night in attending to
the seggars, adding fresh fuel from time to time
to the furnaces of the first and second ovens, and
now and then taking a turn through the yards.
As for Number Three, it kept up its heat to such
a degree that it was almost day before I dared
trust the seggars to go in it.

Thus the hours went by; and at half-past seven
on Thursday morning, the men came to their
work. It was now my turn to go off duty, but
I wanted to see George before I left, and so
waited for him in the counting-house, while a
lad named Steve Storr took my place at the
ovens. But the clock went on from half-past
seven to a quarter to eight; then to eight
o'clock; then to a quarter-past eight—and still
George never made his appearance. At length,
when the hand got round to half-past eight, I
grew weary of waiting, took up my hat, ran
home, went to bed, and slept profoundly until
past four in the afternoon.

That evening I went down to the factory
quite early; for I had a restlessness upon me,
and I wanted to see George before he left for
the night. This time, I found the gate bolted,
and I rang for admittance.

"How early you are, Ben!" said Steve Storr,
as he let me in.

"Mr. Barnard's not gone?" I asked, quickly;
for I saw at the first glance that the gas was
out in the counting-house.

"He's not gone," said Steve, " because he's
never been."

"Never been?"

"No: and what's stranger still, he's not been
home either, since dinner yesterday."

"But he was here last night."

"Oh yes, he was here last night, making up
the books. John Parker was with him till past
six; and you found him here, didn't you, at
half-past nine?"

I shook my head.

"Well, he's gone, anyhow. Good night!"

"Good night!"

I took the lantern from his hand, bolted him
out mechanically, and made my way to the
baking-houses like one in a stupor. George
gone? Gone without a word of warning to his
employer, or of farewell to his fellow-workmen?
I could not understand it. I could not believe it.
I sat down bewildered, incredulous, stunned.
Then came hot tears, doubts, terrifying
suspicions. I remembered the wild words he had
spoken a few nights back; the strange calm by
which they were followed; my dream of the evening
before. I had heard of men who drowned
themselves for love; and the turbid Severn ran
close by—so close, that one might pitch a stone
into it from some of the workshop windows.

These thoughts were too horrible. I dared
not dwell upon them. I turned to work, to
free myself from them, if I could; and began by
examining the ovens. The temperature of all
was much higher than on the previous night, the
heat having been gradually increased during the
last twelve hours. It was now my business to
keep the heat on the increase for twelve more;