Before the servants were fairly astir he laid away the clothing Isabel
had put off, and contrived to leave the house and pass through the arbor
unseen until he reached its farther end; but there Mrs. Morris, in a
dressing gown, opened to him before he could knock. She forced her usual
laugh, but he saw the white preparedness of her face.

"She knows my crime," he thought, and was in agony to guess how she had
got the knowledge and what she would do with it.

"Why, Arthur," she sweetly began, "what brings you"--But her throat
closed.

"Mother," he interrupted emotionally as they shut themselves in, "is
Isabel here?"

"Isabel?--No-o! Why--why, Arthur, she went home last night before ten
o'clock!" The little lady knew her acting was not good, but it was
better than she had hoped to make it. "Arthur Winslow! don't tell me my
child is not at home! Oh, my heavens!"

"Wait, mother; listen. I beseech you. Do you absolutely know she's not
here?"

"I know it! Oh, Arthur, are you only trying to break bad news to me by
littles? Has Isabel destroyed herself? Has she fled?" The inquirer
played well now; her pallor, that had seemed to accuse him, was gone,
and her question offered a cue which he greedily took.

"Fled? Isabel! Destroyed herself,--that spotless soul? Oh no, no, no!