“I won’t!” she breathed intensely.  Swiftly and lightly she sped across her room, opened a door leading to the balcony and went out, closing the door behind her softly.

Mr. Maynard sat before the library fire with a neglected cigar between his fingers.  The events of the day had stirred him deeply.  The cold shock he had felt when he touched his daughter’s cheek in the accustomed good-night kiss remained with him, still chilled his lips.  For an hour he sat there motionless, with his eyes fixed on the dying fire, and in his mind hope, doubt and remorse strangely mingled.  Hope persuaded him that Margaret was only a girl, still sentimental and unpoised.  Unquestionably she had made a good marriage.  Her girlish notions about romance and love must give way to sane acceptance of real human life.  After all money meant a great deal.  She would come around to a sensible view, and get that strange look out of her eyes, that strained blighted look which hurt him.  Then he writhed in his self-contempt; doubt routed all his hope, and remorse made him miserable.

A hurried step on the stairs aroused Mr. Maynard.  Swann came running into the library.  He was white; his sharp featured face wore a combination of expressions; alarm, incredulity, wonder were all visible there, but the most striking was mortification.

“Mr. Maynard, Margaret has left her room.  I can’t find her anywhere.”

The father stared blankly at his son-in-law.

Swann repeated his statement.

“What!” All at once Mr. Maynard sank helplessly into his chair.  In that moment certainty made him an old broken man.

“She’s gone!” said Swann, in a shaken voice.  “She has run off from me.  I knew she would; I knew she’d do something.  I’ve never been able to kiss her—­only last night we quarreled about it.  I tell you it’s—­”

“Pray do not get excited,” interrupted Mr. Maynard, bracing up.  “I’m sure you exaggerate.  Tell me what you know.”

“I went to her room an hour, two hours ago, and knocked.  She was there but refused me admittance.  She spoke sharply—­as if—­as if she was afraid.  I went and knocked again long after.  She didn’t answer.  I knocked again and again.  Then I tried her door.  It was not locked.  I opened it.  She was not in the room.  I waited, but she didn’t come.  I—­I am afraid something is—­wrong.”

“She might be with her mother,” faltered Mr. Maynard.

“No, I’m sure not,” asserted Swann.  “Not to-night of all nights.  Margaret has grown—­somewhat cold toward her mother.  Besides Mrs. Maynard retired hours ago.”

The father and the husband stole noiselessly up the stairs and entered Margaret’s room.  The light was turned on full.  The room was somewhat disordered; bridal finery lay littered about; a rug was crumpled; a wicker basket overturned.  The father’s instinct was true.  His first move was to open the door leading out upon the balcony.  In the thin snow drifted upon this porch were the imprints of little feet.