"Father," she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager arms closed
around her.

Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming to the
wedding. There were jests and laughter and friendly greeting.
The bridegroom came, too, a slim, dark-eyed lad who tiptoed
bashfully upstairs to the spare room, from which he presently
emerged to confront Mrs. Spencer on the landing.

"I want to see Rachel before we go down," he said, blushing.

Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on the table
which was already laden with gifts, opening the door of Rachel's
room, and called her. There was no reply; the room was dark and
still. In sudden alarm, Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp from
the hall table and held it up. The little white room was empty.
No blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David Spencer's
letter was lying on the stand. She caught it up and read it.

"Rachel is gone," she gasped. A flash of intuition had revealed
to her where and why the girl had gone.

"Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid dismay
recalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a bitter, ugly
little laugh.

"Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run away from
you. Hush; come in here--shut the door. Nobody must know of
this. Nice gossip it would make! That little fool has gone to
the Cove to see her--her father. I know she has. It's just like