Day by day he wandered in the streets, meeting
the same crowd and traffic, scrutinising
every face in that vast multitude with the
same disappointment; walking in the roar
and bustle, from the time when it began in
the morning, till at length it subsided and
was succeeded by the hush of night; and he
returned, worn out with fatigue and anxiety,
through the cold and cheerless streets, dreading
the coming of the next day. Once he
wandered beyond the houses and by-lanes with
only now and then a villa or a row of
carcases left half-finished by the builder; till he
came to higher ground, and, looking back,
saw all the smoky city spread below. He sat
down and looked towards it, wondering in
what part of all that labyrinth of houses
Annie might be; wishing, with the earnest
desire which is itself a prayer, that some
bright messenger, as was not unknown in the
early world, would take him by the hand,
invisibly, and lead him, or, with some blind
instinct, so endow him, that he might himself
arise, not knowing why, and, going down
among the houses, straightway find her out.
So he sat and mused, till his mind grew weary
and vacant, and he went back to the old inn.
But on that night he dreamed a strange dream.
Three times the panel of his door was smitten,
awakening him; and, going thither, he opened,
but found no one. And again the door was
three times smitten, but, finding no one still,
he dressed himself and went across the yard.
And, looking down the narrow street, he saw
a figure at a distance, clothed in white, and
followed as it sped before him, with its
garments rustling like the flame of a furnace,
beaten to clear whiteness by the wind. When,
suddenly, it vanished; and, on coming up to
where he saw it last, he stood against the
door of a large house. The door was half-
open, and he entered, and upon a winding
staircase climbed with many turns, until he
gained a landing, and found there another
door ajar. Then, knowing in himself who was
within, he lingered, in great fear, because he
knew not whether she yet lived; till, slowly
pushing back the door, he saw her sitting in
a chair before the fire. He walked around
her, yet she did not move; but in that moment
the smoke above the coals caught in a flame,
and flickered, so that now he saw she slept.
And then he woke—and that day went out
with better hope; but again the crowd and
roar, the fruitless search, and the return at
night through the deserted streets, wore out
his spirit, and took away the comfort of his
dream.

Meanwhile, nothing had been heard of
Annie at Eton. The night when William
Chester left, Mrs. Frampton did not go to
bed, but sat all night in the old parlour, waiting
and listening anxiously for some knock
at the door; but none came: and the next
day she went about again, inquiring till the
afternoon, when John Chester arrived. It
was a heavy blow for the old man when she
told him what had occurred, for he was fond
of Annie, and every time he returned from
the barge his first inquiry was for her, if she
was absent; but mostly he dreaded the task
of conveying the news to the Island.
However, he did not delay, but going back to the
bridge, put off at once in the small boat, and
went down the river. Mrs. Frampton had
told him of the departure of his nephew, and
what he said of the cause of Annie's flight,
and his intention to seek her; but he did not
doubt that if he had not gone first to the
Island, he should hear of him there soon.
Mooring his boat to the trunk of a willow, he
went ashore upon the Ayte, at night, and
found his old friend, the basket-maker, sitting
by the fire as usual, with Mary. Shrinking
from his purpose for some time, the barge-
master lingered; but guessing from his
manner that some misfortune had occurred,
they questioned him, and he told them all
he knew.

"You, Chester," said he, taking him by the
arm, " you will stand by me at this time. I
will go back with you to Eton to-night."

"No, no," replied his friend. " Mary must
not be left in this dreary place alone, to cry
her eyes out."

"Oh, yes, father!" exclaimed Mary. " Go
at once. I would rather be left here a
hundred times than have you linger a
moment."

"Come, then!" said the basket-maker;
and bidding Mary not despair, for that he
hoped soon to return with some good news,
he drew his friend away.

"It is a dark night to be on the river,"
said Chester; but his friend did not answer
him. He loosened the boat, and hauling it
to the bank, they stepped in, and began to
pull hard against the stream and a keen wind,
that would have frozen them, but for the
exertion. For three days Mary Chester
waited for their return. Throughout long
sleepless nights she listened for them, and by
day she stood at the water-side, looking up
the river anxiously; but still they did not
come, and the faint hope with which her
father's words had inspired her gradually
died out. On the fourth day they came,
saying they had no tidings of her; although,
as William Chester had not returned, there
was still a faint hope that he had found
some trace of her, and would soon come back
with better news. Day by day the barge-
master grew more alarmed at the absence of
his nephew. He passed to and fro between Eton
and the Island continually; yet a fortnight
passed without any tidings of him at either
place, till one night when he was sitting with
the basket-maker and his daughter in the
cottage, and talking still of his nephew's
strange disappearance, they heard a knock
at the shutters, and on opening the door,
William Chester entered. Mary held the
candle up to him, scarcely sure that it was he,
so changed had he become in the short time