“Oh, Fairy Godmother, what does it mean?” The tall, slender girl, who had been obsequiously ushered into Mrs. Gray’s stately, old-fashioned house on Chapel Hill, darted down the hall and straight into a pair of arms outstretched to receive her.

“I ­don’t ­know ­my dear.  I wish I ­” Mrs. Gray’s broken utterance ended in a sob, as she laid her silvery head on Grace’s breast.  Until that moment she had remained calm.  The sight of one who was equally enveloped in the shadow that had dropped down upon her, proved too much for her.  Clinging to Grace, she sobbed heart-brokenly.

“There, there, dear Fairy Godmother.  You mustn’t cry so!” Grace’s own voice was husky with emotion.  “You have me with you now to comfort you.  Cheer up.  I am sure that everything will turn out all right.  It’s ­dreadful ­of course ­not ­to hear from Tom,” Grace faltered briefly, “but I ­we must keep thinking he is safe and well and that we may receive a letter from him at any minute.  I didn’t wait to go home.  I knew you needed me, so I came straight from the train here.  Mother doesn’t even know yet that I am in town.  Come into the library and sit down in your own favorite chair.”  Bravely stifling her own heavy anxiety, Grace wrapped an affectionate arm about the dainty little old lady and drew her into the long room which had been the scene of so many of their confidential talks.

“There you are!” she nodded, striving to smile.  “Just a moment until I get rid of my hat and coat and I’ll curl up on the floor at your feet.  Then we can talk things over and find out what’s to be done.”

“You are a dear good child,” quavered Mrs. Gray.  Under the white glow of the electric lamp, her Dresden-shepherdess face looked pinched and wan.  Fear and uncertainty had robbed her small features of that look of perennial youth which so individualized her.  “It was thoughtful in you to telegraph me that you were coming.  I knew then that you hadn’t heard from Tom, but I knew, too, that you would soon be here.”

“I hated to telegraph you, knowing you’d worry even more.  Still it seemed best.”  Now ensconced at Mrs. Gray’s feet, Grace possessed herself of the older woman’s hand.  “Please feel that whatever you may ask of me, I will cheerfully try to perform it.”

“I don’t know which way to turn,” was the distracted answer.  “I had so hoped that you would be able to tell me that Tom was safe in camp.  It’s a rather delicate matter, my child.  Coming as it does so near your wedding day, it is very necessary that Tom should be located at once.  I’ve already written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom, but as yet he has not answered my letter.  Something dreadful has happened to my poor boy.  I feel it.”

Grace privately agreed with her, yet she would not say so.  She knew as well as did Mrs. Gray that only actual mishap would have caused Tom to fail in his duty to his aunt and to herself.  “I think we had better telegraph Mr. Mackenzie,” she suggested, her voice ringing with new-born purpose.  “Then ­if he knows nothing of Tom’s whereabouts we had better organize a search.  First of all we must know if he reached the camp.  If not ­” Grace stopped, overmastered for an instant by a silent spasm of dread that cut lines of pain in her fine face.

“I don’t like to send a telegram from Oakdale,” demurred Mrs. Gray.  “These small town operators are not always to be trusted.  If the story were to creep about that Tom Gray had disappeared, so shortly before his wedding day, it would be very painful for both you and me.  I could, of course, consult a private investigator in New York, yet I shrink from doing so until I know definitely that Tom has disappeared.  It is such an intimate, personal matter.  I don’t fancy turning it over even to my lawyer.  You can understand that.”

“Yes.”  Grace had grown very pale at the possibility of the tender romance of her Golden Summer being held up even to the little world of Oakdale as a subject for gossip and possibly harsh criticism.  Seized with a blessed thought she said:  “There is one person at least whom I think we ought to take into our confidence.  That person is David Nesbit.  He and Tom have always been like brothers.  He will help us.  I’ll write him now, before I go home, and ask him to telegraph Mr. Mackenzie.  A telegram sent from New York will never give cause for gossip here.”

Rising to seek her traveling bag which she had deposited in the hall, she hastily rummaged in it for her fountain pen.  The sight of Mrs. Gray’s pitiful face had completely aroused her to the need for prompt action.  Re-entering the library she approached the massive writing table with the quick assured step, so characteristic of the brave spirit with which she had always faced adversity.  From a drawer of the table she selected note paper and an envelope to match and seating herself, prepared to plunge intrepidly into the writing of the most difficult letter she had ever been called upon to pen.

“Dear David:”  she wrote, then groped about in her mind for the words which would best convey to Tom’s chum the sorry message she was fated to deliver.  It was not a long letter, yet she knew that the recipient would read between the lines and fully comprehend the serious situation which confronted herself and Mrs. Gray.  When she had finished writing it and signed her name, she next devoted her attention to the wording of a telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, setting it down on a separate sheet of paper.

“Please read them, Fairy Godmother,” she requested, tendering the fruits of her painful effort to Mrs. Gray.

“You are right in believing David to be the best possible confidant,” sighed the old lady as she returned the letter and telegraphic message to Grace.  “We can rely on him absolutely.”

“I must go now.  It is after nine o’clock.  I will hurry to the nearest drug store for a special delivery stamp and mail the letter at once.  I wish I might stay with you longer, but I feel as though I ought to go home.  You don’t mind if I tell Mother and Father?  It is within their right to know.”

“Of course it is,” readily agreed Mrs. Gray.  “I only deferred telling them until I had talked with you, Grace.  I can’t begin to tell you how much having you here has comforted me.  I feel a trifle more cheerful already.  Perhaps, after all, we have been running out to meet calamity.  To-morrow may bring us word that Tom is safe and well.”  Rising from her chair, Mrs. Gray embraced Grace tenderly.

“I hope so.”  Forcing herself to smile encouragingly down at the wan little figure beside her, Grace bent and kissed the old lady’s cheek.  For a moment the two clung together, their mutual devotion deepened by their common sorrow.  Gently disengaging herself from Mrs. Gray’s arms, Grace donned her hat and coat and, with a last fond word of cheer, soberly sought the door and stepped out into the starlit night.

Alone with her sorrow, her late attempt at cheerfulness fell away from her like a cloak.  Deep dejection settled down upon her as she walked down Chapel Hill toward home.  The very beauty of the fragrant, starry night hurt her.  She wondered if those some far-off stars, twinkling so remotely aloft, held the knowledge of Tom Gray for which she mournfully yearned.  Why had this dreadful uncertainty intruded itself into the very heart of her Golden Summer?  Had she boasted of her happiness only to see it snatched rudely from her life?  Suppose Tom were never to return?  Suppose even the knowledge of his fate were to be denied her?  Over and over again she had read in the newspapers of the strange disappearances of persons, the mystery of which defied solution.  The horror of her gloomy apprehensions sent a chill to her heart that caused it for an instant to stand still, or so it seemed to her.

“I mustn’t think of such frightful things,” she breathed.  “Tom is all right.  I must make myself believe it.  Now is the time to be brave; to go on steadily without faltering.  Tom will come back to me.  Wherever he is or whatever has happened to him, he will come back.  I know it.”