her hands on her hips; her gray hair was twisted into a small,
tight knot at the back of her head, and her face looked like iron
that had once been molten and had cooled into roughened
immobility. It was not an unamiable face; as she stood there
looking down at Mrs. Richie she even smiled the half-amused smile
one might bestow on a puppy, and she put a kindly hand on the
other mother's shoulder. "Don't be so scared, woman! They'll be
found."

"You don't think anything could have happened to him?" Mrs.
Richie said, trembling; "you don't think he could have been run
over, or--or anything?" She clutched at the big hand and clung to
it.

"No," Mrs. Maitland said, dryly; "I don't think anything has
happened to him."

Mrs. Richie had the grace to blush. "Of course I meant Blair and
Nannie, too," she murmured.

"You never thought of 'em!" Mrs. Maitland said, chuckling; "now
you must have some supper."

They were in the midst of it when a note came from Mr. Ferguson
to say that he was on the track of the runaways. He had sent a
despatch that would insure their being returned by the next
train, and he was himself going half-way up the road to meet
them. Then a postscript: "Tell Mrs. Richie not to worry."

"Doesn't seem much disturbed about my worry," said Mrs. Maitland,