that he had been absent. His clothes looked
worn and dusty; his face was pale and careworn,
and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot.
He glanced eagerly around the room,
and then sank into a chair without speaking;
and they were silent, showing by his manner
that he had no news of Annie.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

Slowly, as the weeks and months went by
without bringing any news of Annie, the
habit of thinking of her as if she had been
taken from them by the hand of God, grew
on them. Her father, indeed, persisting in
his faith in her innocence and goodness of
heart, spoke of her always as if she were
dead. Even his apprentice, though still
anxious for some tidings of her fate, had
come to look back upon the history of their
acquaintance as upon a dream from which he
had awakened. They seldom spoke of her,
though often something that recalled her,
coming on them unawares, would make them
silent for awhile; and sometimes upon dark
and windy nights the thought that Annie
might be still living somewhere in poverty,
perhaps without a home to shelter her, came
upon all; and each one knew the other's
thoughts, though all were silent. That year,
for many reasons, was a memorable one for
William Chester. Only six months after
Annie's disappearance, his uncle was taken
suddenly ill, and on his hastening to Eton, he
found that he had died but a few hours
before! With a heavy heart he returned to
the Island again, after the funeral. His new
misfortune, awakening now a grief that time
had partly laid asleep, fell on him heavily.
A sense of the terrible mystery of life
oppressed him with a vague fear of the future.
A great change had come upon him. He
became reserved and thoughtful, sitting
sometimes whole nights, with others, without
speaking. At such times, Mary Burton would
endeavour to console him; striving, for his
sake, to be cheerful, and by every means she
could devise to lead him to a better and more
trustful spirit. In the evening, she would
bring her work and sit beside him at the
door, as Annie used; though not to talk to
him of bygone days, but of a happier future,
and the duty of resignation, and a faith that
all things work together for the best; and
in-doors, when the shutters were closed and
the fire burnt brightly, she would beg him to
read to her, or would read aloud herself, from
some book which she thought most fitted to
amuse him, begging him to correct her if she
read badly; chiefly for the sake of keeping
him from sadder thoughts. On Sundays, they
went ashore in the boat, and walked across
the fields to church together, the old man
accompanying them; and sometimes, in the
afternoon, they went to visit a friend in a
neighbouring village. On one of these
occasions they had lingered long, and it was near
sunset when they set out to return. It was
in the autumn of the year. The sky had been
without a cloud all day. although the air had
been cool; and the evening crept slowly upon
the earth, without a breath of wind. There
was a blacksmith's shed at the bottom of the
village, and they waited awhile looking in at
the window, watching the glowing furnace
and the men at work as they hammered the
bright metal into showers of sparks. They
walked away together down the lane, and
passed the wide brook, that, running bright
and shallow across the roadway, wound under
rows of willows in the meadow, and lingered
again upon a little plank bridge, watching
the gnats above the stream rising and falling
in the mellow sunlight, and the leaves as
they dropped now and then into the water
and floated on. Then they turned off, by a
gate, and walked across the ploughed field.
"A feeling of autumn is in the very air," said
Mary, breaking the silence. "Even since
Sunday, the tints upon the woods have
become deeper, as if the bright motes in the
sunlight were settling upon everything, like
a dust of gold." There was a power in that
calm day in the country, more healing to a
sorrowful spirit than any words that could
be spoken. Mary felt this, and said little;
humouring her companion in his silence. He,
in truth, felt more contented and resigned
that day, than he had been for many months.
He thought of Mary's goodness, and all the
pains that she had taken to soothe him; and
he blessed her in his heart. From that day,
he grew more cheerful; and, out of gratitude
to Mary, promised her that henceforth she
should see a change in him.

Twelve months had elapsed since Annie's
flight, when one evening William Chester was
sitting as usual with Mary, reading. They
turned the leaves of the book, and by accident
discovered some writing of Annie's, and they
remembered that it was a twelvemonth, that
day, since her disappearance. William Chester
closed the book, and sat gazing thoughtfully
at the fire for a few moments, till looking up
at Mary, he saw the tears in her eyes. He
pressed her hand, and this time he was the
comforter, bidding her hope, and assuring her
that if she had lost a sister in Annie, he would
be to her a brother, and would stand by her
and protect her all his life.

"Hush! " exclaimed Mary, " I hear a footstep
in the garden."

They listened intently; for although her
father was absent, and they expected him, a
sudden fancy arose out of their conversation,
that perhaps it was Annie who had returned
that very night, and had come, by some means,
upon the Island, to surprise them. He ran to
the door, and opened it; but it was only the
basket-maker.

'' I should have been back before dark,"
said he; " but I went up to the village for a
letter that I heard was waiting for you there.
It had been in the postmaster's window these
three days."