passing from room to room, in and out of the house, moving
noiselessly, but never ceasing. Neither she nor my father durst
leave the house, which was the meeting-place for all the
messengers. At last (and it was nearly dark), my father rose up.
He took hold of my mother's arm as she came with wild, sad pace
through one door, and quickly towards another. She started at the
touch of his hand, for she had forgotten all in the world but
Peter.

"'Molly!' said he, 'I did not think all this would happen.' He
looked into her face for comfort--her poor face all wild and white;
for neither she nor my father had dared to acknowledge--much less
act upon--the terror that was in their hearts, lest Peter should
have made away with himself. My father saw no conscious look in
his wife's hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the sympathy that she
had always been ready to give him--strong man as he was, and at the
dumb despair in her face his tears began to flow. But when she saw
this, a gentle sorrow came over her countenance, and she said,
'Dearest John! don't cry; come with me, and we'll find him,' almost
as cheerfully as if she knew where he was. And she took my
father's great hand in her little soft one, and led him along, the
tears dropping as he walked on that same unceasing, weary walk,
from room to room, through house and garden.

"Oh, how I wished for Deborah! I had no time for crying, for now
all seemed to depend on me. I wrote for Deborah to come home. I
sent a message privately to that same Mr Holbrook's house--poor Mr
Holbrook;--you know who I mean. I don't mean I sent a message to
him, but I sent one that I could trust to know if Peter was at his
house. For at one time Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at