baskets, the miracle of which was that they were so clean. They had seen
a young lady answering the description, about a week ago. She had bought
a basket. Asked them if they had a canoe they wanted to sell.--Eyes like
hers (pointing to a squaw with a man's hat on).

At Pocasset the young men explored all the thick woods,--some who ought
to have known better taking their guns, which made a talk, as one might
well suppose it would. Hunting on a Sabbath day! They did n't mean to
shoot Myrtle Hazard, did they? it was keenly asked. A good many said it
was all nonsense, and a mere excuse to get away from meeting and have a
sort of frolic on pretence that it was a work of necessity and mercy, one
or both.

While they were scattering themselves about in this way, some in earnest,
some rejoicing in the unwonted license, lifting off for a little while
that enormous Sabbath-day pressure which weighs like forty atmospheres on
every true-born Puritan, two young men had been since Friday in search of
the lost girl, each following a clue of his own, and determined to find
her if she was among the living.

Cyprian Eveleth made for the village of Mapleton, where his sister Olive
was staying, trusting that, with her aid, he might get a clue to the
mystery of Myrtle's disappearance.

William Murray Bradshaw struck for a railroad train going to the great
seaport, at a station where it stops for wood and water.

In the mean time, a third young man, Gifted Hopkins by name, son of the
good woman already mentioned, sat down, with tears in his eyes, and wrote
those touching stanzas, "The Lost Myrtle," which were printed in the next