She does not know where we are. Oh, I cannot bear the sight
of those miserable jewels," she exclaimed. "The mere thought of them
reminds me how I misjudged our poor child."
There was nothing she could do in Richmond and she hurried back to
Washington to consult her brother-in-law. How unlike the merry journey
of the day before was the silent, miserable trip!
"Don't take it so hard, dear boy," Miss Drayton said, clasping Pat's
hand which lay limp in hers a minute and was then withdrawn. "We may
find her yet,--well and happy."
She spoke in a half-hearted way and Pat shook his head hopelessly.
"She's been gone two weeks," he said, "and no sign of her. I think about
her--like that woman said--homeless--friendless--all alone--a little
lost child--in the wet and dark, like last night." There was a moment's
silence. Then Pat spoke again: "Aunt Sarah, I shall never feel the same
to father. It is his fault. He ought not to have put her there. He
ought to have told me where she was. If he had told me when I asked
him--that was three weeks ago, you know."
Miss Drayton reasoned, coaxed, entreated. "Think of your mother, Pat,"
she said gently. "How you would grieve her!"
"I do think of her," returned Pat.
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