FOR the rest of the day, and through the night, I was kept aclose prisoner in my room, watched by a man on whose fidelity myfather could depend.

The next morning I made an effort to escape, and was discoveredbefore I had got free of the house. Confined again to my room, Icontrived to write to Mary, and to slip my note into the willinghand of the housemaid who attended on me. Useless! The vigilanceof my guardian was not to be evaded. The woman was suspected andfollowed, and the letter was taken from her. My father tore it upwith his own hands.

Later in the day, my mother was permitted to see me.

She was quite unfit, poor soul, to intercede for me, or to servemy interests in any way. My father had completely overwhelmed herby announcing that his wife and his son were to accompany him,when he returned to America.

"Every farthing he has in the world," said my mother, "is to bethrown into that hateful speculation. He has raised money inLondon; he has let the house to some rich tradesman for sevenyears; he has sold the plate, and the jewels that came to me fromhis mother. The land in America swallows it all up. We have nohome, George, and no choice but to go with him."

An hour afterward the post-chaise was at the door.

My father himself took me to the carriage. I broke away from him,with a desperation which not even his resolution could resist. Iran, I flew, along the path that led to Dermody's cottage. Thedoor stood open; the parlor was empty. I went into the kitchen; Iwent into the upper rooms. Solitude everywhere. The bailiff hadleft the place; and his mother and his daughter had gone withhim. No friend or neighbor lingered near with a message; noletter lay waiting for me; no hint was left to tell me in whatdirection they had taken their departure. After the insultingwords which his master had spoken to him, Dermody's pride wasconcerned in leaving no trace of his whereabouts; my father mightconsider it as a trace purposely left with the object ofreuniting Mary and me. I had no keepsake to speak to me of mylost darling but the flag which she had embroidered with her ownhand. The furniture still remained in the cottage. I sat down inour customary corner, by Mary's empty chair, and looked again atthe pretty green flag, and burst out crying.

A light touch roused me. My father had so far yielded as to leaveto my mother the responsibility of bringing me back to thetraveling carriage.

"We shall not find Mary here, George," she said, gently. "And we_ may_ hear of her in London. Come with me."

I rose and silently gave her my hand. Something low down on theclean white door-post caught my eye as we passed it. I stooped,and discovered some writing in pencil. I looked closer--it waswriting in Mary's hand! The unformed childish characters tracedthese last words of farewell:

"Good-by, dear. Don't forget Mary."

I knelt down and kissed the writing. It comforted me--it was likea farewell touch from Mary's hand. I followed my mother quietlyto the carriage.

Late that night we were in London.

My good mother did all that the most compassionate kindness coulddo (in her position) to comfort me. She privately wrote to thesolicitors employed by her family, inclosing a description ofDermody and his mother and daughter and directing inquiries to bemade at the various coach-offices in London. She also referredthe lawyers to two of Dermody's relatives, who lived in the city,a nd who might know something of his movements after he left myfather's service. When she had done this, she had done all thatlay in her power. We neither of us possessed money enough toadvertise in the newspapers.

A week afterward we sailed for the United States. Twice in thatinterval I communicated with the lawyers; and twice I wasinformed that the inquiries had led to nothing.

With this the first epoch in my love story comes to an end.

For ten long years afterward I never again met with my littleMary; I never even heard whether she had lived to grow towomanhood or not. I still kept the green flag, with the doveworked on it. For the rest, the waters of oblivion had closedover the old golden days at Greenwater Broad.