returned home to dinner and Alice was found to be missing. It was evident that it was not an accidental detention, for her trunk had been sent for an hour previous, and the messenger either could not or would not give any information as to her whereabouts. Mrs. Monroe was excessively agitated,—her faculties lost in a maze, like one beholding an accident without power of thought or motion. To Walter it was a heavy blow; he feared that his own advances had been the occasion of her leaving the house, and he reproached himself bitterly for his headlong folly. Their dinner was a sad and cheerless meal; the mother feeling all a woman's solicitude for a friendless girl; the son filled with a tumult of sorrow, remorse, love, and pity.
"Poor Alice!" said Mrs. Monroe; "perhaps she has found no home."
"Don't, mother! The thought of her in the streets, or among suspicious strangers, or vulgar people, is dreadful. We must leave no means untried to find her. Did she leave no word, no note?"
"No,—none that I know of."
"Have you looked?"
She shook her head. Walter left his untasted food, and hastily looked in the hall, then in the parlor, and at last in the library. There was the note in her own delicate hand.
"DEAR WALTER,—
"Don't be offended. I cannot eat the bread of idleness now that your fortune is gone and your salary stopped. If I need your assistance, you will hear from me. Comfort your mother, and believe that I shall be happier earning my own living. We shall meet in better times. God bless you both for your kindness to one who had no claim upon you!
"ALICE."
"The dear creature!" said Mrs. Monroe, taking the note and kissing it.
"Why did you let her trunk go, mother? You might have detained the man who came for it, and sent for me. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth."
"I don't know, my son. I was confused. I hardly knew what happened. I shook so that I sat down, and Bridget must have got it."
Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands trembled so that her fork dropped.
"Never mind, dear mother. Pray, be calm. I did not wish to disturb you."
There was a ring at the door. A gentleman wished to see Mr. Monroe. Rising from the table, he went into the parlor.
"Mr. Monroe," began the stranger, in an agitated manner, "do you know anything of a young lady named Lee,—Alice Lee?"
"Yes," replied Monroe, with equal excitement, "I know her well. What of her? Where is she? Have you found her?"
"Found her?" said the other, with surprise. "Is she not here?"
"No,—she left this morning."
"And left no word where she was going?"
"None."
"Let me beg of you not to trifle with me. Did she not hear my voice, my step, and attempt to excuse herself through you?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Walter.
"I beg pardon. I have been in search of her for two days. I could not believe she had eluded me just at the last. I do not wish to doubt your word."
"And who may you be, Sir, to take such an interest in the lady?"
"I can satisfy you fully. My name is Greenleaf."
"The painter?"
"Yes. You must have heard her speak of me."
"Never, to my recollection."
"Have you known her long?"
"She is my cousin. It is only recently that she came here, and her acquaintances of a year ago might naturally have been passed over."
"You seem surprised at her leaving you so abruptly. You will join me in making search for her?"
"I shall search for her, myself, as long as there is hope."
"Let me confess," said Greenleaf, "that I have the strongest reasons for my haste. She is betrothed to me."
"Since you have honored me with your confidence, I will return it, so far as to tell you what I heard from her this morning. I think I can remember the precise words:—'I have received a wound from the faithlessness of one lover, which never will heal.' If you are the person, I hope the information will be as agreeable to you as her absence and ill-judging independence are to me. I wish you good morning."
"Then she has heard!" said Greenleaf, soliloquizing. "I am justly punished." Then aloud. "I shall not take offence at your severity of tone. I have but one thought now. Good morning!"
He left the house, like one in a dream. Alice, homeless in the streets this bitter day,—seeking for a home in poverty-stricken boarding-houses,—asking for work from tailors or milliners,—exposed to jeers, coarse compliments, and even to utter want!—the thought was agony. The sorrows of a whole life were concentrated in this one hour. He walked on, frantically, peering under every bonnet as he passed, looking wistfully in at the shop-windows, expecting every moment to encounter her sad, reproachful face.
Walter had been somewhat ill for several days, and the accumulation of misfortunes now pressed upon him heavily. He did not tell his mother of the strange interview, but sat down moodily by the grate, in the library. He was utterly perplexed where in the city to search for Alice; and with his mental depression came a bodily infirmity and nervousness that made him incapable of effort. An hour passed in gloomy reverie,—drifting without aim upon a shoreless ocean, under a sullen sky,—when he was roused by the entrance of Easelmann.
"In the dumps? I declare, Monroe, I shouldn't have thought it of you."
"I am really ill, my friend."
"Pooh! Don't let your troubles make you believe that. Cheer up. You'll find employment presently, and you'll be surprised to find how well you are."
"I hope I shall be able to make the experiment."
"Well, suppose you walk out with me. There is a tailor I want you to see."
"A tailor? I can't sew or use shears, either."
"No,—nor sit cross-legged; I know that. But this tailor is no common Snip. He is a man of ideas and character. He has something to propose to you."
"Indeed! I am much obliged to you. To-morrow I will go with you; but, really, I feel too feeble to-day," said Monroe, languidly.
"Well, as you please; to-morrow it shall be. How is your mother?"
"Quite well, I thank you."
"And the pretty cousin, likewise, I hope?"
"She was quite well this morning."
"Isn't she at home?"
"No,—she has gone out."
"Confound you, Monroe! you have never let me have a glimpse of her. Now I am not a dangerous person; quite harmless, in fact; received trustfully by matrons with grown-up daughters. You needn't hide her."
"I don't know. Some young ladies are quite apt to be fascinated by elderly gentlemen
