LUCY’S GHOST

Kenneth had sent word to Tom Gates, asking the young man to come to Elmhurst, but it was not until two days after the lawn party that Tom appeared and asked permission to see Mr. Forbes.

Beth and Louise were with Kenneth at the time, and were eager to remain during the interview, so the young man was shown into the library.

Beth could scarcely recognize in him the calm and cheerful Tom Gates they had visited in the county jail; for his face was drawn with care and anxiety, eyes were bloodshot, and his former neat appearance was changed to one careless and untidy.

Kenneth scrutinized him closely.

“What have you been up to, Tom?” he asked.

“I’ve been searching for Lucy, sir, night and day.  I haven’t slept a wink since I heard the awful news of her sickness and escape.  Where do you think she can be, sir?”

His question was full of agonized entreaty, and his manner pitifully appealing.

“I don’t know,” answered Kenneth.  “Where have you searched?”

“Everywhere, sir, that she might be likely to go.  I’ve inquired in every town, and along every road leading out of the county.  She didn’t take a train, because poor Lucy hadn’t any money—­and I’ve asked at all the stations.  And—­and—­along the river they say no girl answering her description has been seen.”

“It’s strange,” remarked Kenneth, thoughtfully, while the girls regarded the youth with silent sympathy.

“If you knew Lucy, sir, you’d realize how strange it is,” went on young Gates, earnestly.  “She was such a gentle, shrinking girl, as shy and retiring as a child.  And she never did a thing that would cause anyone the least worry or unhappiness.  But she was out of her head, sir, and didn’t know what she was about.  That was the reason she went away.  And from the moment she left her home all trace of her was lost.”

“One would think,” observed Kenneth, “that a poor, demented girl, wandering about the country, would be noticed by scores of people.  Did she take any clothing with her?”

“Only the dress she had on, sir, and not even a hat or a shawl.”

“What was her dress like?” asked Beth, quickly.

“It was a light grey in color, and plainly made.  She wore a white collar, but that is all we can be certain she had on.  You see her mother is blind, and old Will doesn’t observe very closely.”

“Does Lucy resemble her mother?” inquired Beth.

“Very much, miss.  She was a beautiful girl, everyone acknowledged.  And it’s all my fault—­all my fault.  I thought to save her, and drove her mad, instead!”

“You might have known that,” declared Kenneth.  “A girl of her character, sensitive to a fault, would be greatly shocked to find the man she loved a criminal.”

“It was for her sake.”

“That is a poor excuse.  If you had waited Lucy would have proved her innocence.”