"Who's killed?" she asked, trembling, but Joe would not tell her.
He demanded to know what had been done with Uncle John.

"He's quiet enough, up-stairs," she replied, with a sudden spasm
of feeling that she HAD neglected Uncle John shamefully; still,
with the day, and the fire and everything, how could she help it?
but, really, it did seem strange that he made no noise, with a
hundred armed men coming and going through the house.

At least, that was what Joe thought, and, having deposited the
basket of wood on the threshold of the kitchen door, he departed
around the corner of the house. Presently he had climbed a
pear-tree, dropped from one of its overhanging branches on the
lean-to, raised a sash and crept into the window.

Slipping off his shoes, heavy with spring-mud, he proceeded to
search for Uncle John. He was not in his own room; he was not in
the guest-chamber; he was not in any one of the rooms.

On the floor, by the window in the hall, looking out upon the
green, he found the broken cup and saucer that Martha Moulton had
let fall. Having made a second round, in which he investigated
every closet and penetrated into the spaces under beds, Joe
thought of the garret.

Tramp, tramp went the heavy feet on the sanded floors below,
drowning every possible sound from above; nevertheless, as the
lad opened the door leading into the garret, he whispered
cautiously: "Uncle John! Uncle John!"