Rosanna was gone. When or where or how no one could tell. By eight o’clock on that dreadful morning the neighborhood had been scoured, the alleys searched and the police were talking darkly of kidnapers and of dragging the river.

Mrs. Horton knew that no one could have entered the house, but she was at a loss to see how Rosanna could have been taken out or have gone out without being seen, even if she had not gone before dark. The neighborhood was full of children, and no one, young or old, had seen Rosanna, who was well known by sight by everyone on the block.

At quarter past eight, to Mrs. Horton’s surprise, Mrs. Hargrave walked in. It was evident by her distressed look and trembling hands that she had learned what had happened.

“Well, Virginia, you have done it this time!” she said. “I have been telling you for the last forty years that your unholy pride would get you into trouble, and it has. If anything happens to hurt Rosanna well, I just won’t tell you what I think; I reckon you know without my saying it. Now begin at the beginning and tell me in as few words as possible just what you did to her. I don’t want to know now what you thought she had done or what you thought about it yourself. I want to know what you did to Rosanna.”

Mrs. Hargrave seated herself on the edge of a chair as though she might fly off at any moment. She listened intently while Mrs. Horton, still thinking of the accusing eyes in the two pictures, told how she had punished Rosanna.

When she had finished, Mrs. Hargrave spoke. “I don’t see how you will ever forgive yourself.”

“I couldn’t bear to have her grow up rough and coarse like so many of these modern children. I wanted to keep her away from all lowering influences.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee!” said Mrs. Hargrave, beating a tiny hand on the arm of her chair. “Fiddle-dee-dee and fiddle_sticks_ with your ’lowering influences’! What did you do but leave her to her own thoughts and no one to talk to but a stiff old woman and a houseful of servants? Well, you have done it! What are you doing to find her?”

“I have put it in the hands of the police, and they have an extra shift of detectives searching the city.” Mrs. Horton trembled so she could scarcely speak.

“Detectives, yes!” said Mrs. Hargrave. “Walking around the alley, two and two, looking for all the little girls with long, black curls. That’s about all that will do for you. Have you called Minnie?”

“I don’t know where she lives,” parried Mrs. Horton.

“Well, I do!” said Mrs. Hargrave.

She hurried to the telephone, and after a moment returned. “She will be right over,” she said.

“That does not seem necessary,” said Mrs. Horton. She dreaded to see Minnie.

“It does to me,” said Mrs. Hargrave. She softened a little. “Now, my dear,” she said, “you are not able to carry this thing through alone. A frightful thing has happened, and it is likely that we may never see our little Rosanna again.” She choked back the tears. “Have you spoken to Mr. Culver?”

“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Horton. “The name sounds familiar.”

“It ought to!” said Mrs. Hargrave. “A splendid fellow your chauffeur.”

“I thought his name was Carver,” said Mrs. Horton. “You all write so badly. No, I have not seen him; he is the cause, or part of the cause of this dreadful affair.”

“Not so much as I am if you are going to look at it like that,” said Mrs. Hargrave. “Next to Rosanna, his daughter is the nicest little girl I ever saw. I am going to do something for her some day, and I will thank you, my dear, not to abuse her. Now I want you to send for John. I want to see him if you don’t.”

“I think the police captain saw him,” said Mrs. Horton.

“Shall I ring that bell or will you?” demanded her friend.

Mrs. Horton rose.

“Send for the chauffeur,” she ordered the house boy.

“I think they’s gone, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, you run as fast as ever you can and tell them not to go,” said Mrs. Hargrave. “Mrs. Horton wants to see both Mr. and Mrs. Culver.”

The house boy bolted.

The Culvers came gravely in. Both looked pale and distressed. Mrs. Horton studied Mrs. Culver with surprise. Well dressed, beautiful and refined, she was not the woman Mrs. Horton had expected to see.

Mrs. Hargrave took charge.

“Good-morning, my dears,” she said. “There is just one thing for us all to do now, and that is to put aside all personal feelings, just as you would want your friends to do if something dreadful had happened to our dear Helen, and all work together to see if we cannot save our little Rosanna from whatever fate has overtaken her. I wondered if you have ever heard her say anything that would lead you to think that if she did leave this house of her own accord, she would go to any one person?”

“Only Minnie,” said Mrs. Culver in a voice as cultivated and low as Mrs. Hargrave’s own.

“I have sent for Minnie,” said Mrs. Hargrave. “I talked to her over the telephone and she knows nothing at all about Rosanna, but she is coming over at once. I want you to tell us, Mrs. Culver, if you ever heard Rosanna say anything that would lead you to think that she would run away.”

Mrs. Culver hesitated, then with a flush said:

“I think it is only my duty to say that Rosanna was the loneliest child I have ever seen. If she is found, I hope that something can be done to place her among people who will give her not only care, but love.”

“How dare you say that I did not love her?” cried Mrs. Horton.

“I say it because I love Rosanna,” said Mrs. Culver, “and I cannot help thinking that if my child should be left motherless, I would rather wish her dead than brought up as you are trying to bring her up, Mrs. Horton.

“Oh, why, why did you not let her have her friends? If you object to us because we are simple people and poor, why did you not see to it that she had friends in her ‘own set’ as you call it? And as for the friendship between my child and Rosanna, we had your own letter for our permission.”

“We certainly did,” said Mrs. Hargrave.

“I cannot talk about this now,” said Mrs. Horton. “Please leave me.”

“Don’t you go a step farther than your own house, John,” said Mrs. Hargrave briskly. “I am going to give orders for awhile. Mrs. Horton, as you see, is overcome. We need you. Take one of the cars and ride about and see what you can see, John, and you, my dear, stand ready to do anything that you can, like the fine girl that you are.” She smiled and the two left the room, tears streaming down the face of Mrs. Culver. As they went slowly through the garden, Minnie burst through the gate, and rushed toward the house. She did not even see them. She hurried to the library, and hesitating for a second to pull herself together, knocked on the door and entered as Mrs. Horton called, “Come!”

Minnie bowed, and Mrs. Hargrave at once said: “Minnie, can you imagine where Rosanna would go if she left home, when she was as unhappy as she was last night?”

“Only to my house,” said Minnie. “If anybody abused her as I will say they did, yet mentioning no names, and if anybody made a prisoner of her, and spent most of their time year in and out making her unhappy, and with you away, Mrs. Hargrave, I know if my darling Miss Rosanna was let to go anywhere of her own free will, she would come to her Minnie who loves her. That child needed to be cuddled and loved, Mrs. Hargrave, ma’am, and I was the only person about here who ever held her on a lap, and I know she would start for me. But you’ll not find her for one long while. How she got out of the house I don’t know. But why she went I can pretty well guess, and what if a gang of robbers should meet Miss Rosanna going along all alone and her so beautiful with her long curls and pretty dresses? What would they do but pick her up right off, and carry her away and hold her for some people who didn’t appreciate her when they had her, to pay them a fortune to get her back?” Here Minnie commenced to cry.

“Don’t do that!” said Mrs. Horton sharply. “I can’t stand it!”

Minnie turned to her.

“Mrs. Horton, now that the dear child is stolen and by this time probably murdered and buried, and no one the wiser, I think it is only right to tell you that it is all your fault. While I was working here and felt that I could do for Miss Rosanna, I was careful to say nothing at all, and it can never be laid to me that I said one word against you to your granddaughter. No, ma’am, Mrs. Horton, I was true to the wages I earned. I never said one word even to my young man about the way you froze all the happiness out of that dear departed child. And what I could do I did. I tucked her in at night and always kissed her, and when I found out how she wanted to be held tight, I held her and told her fairy stories. And I found out all I could about her father and mother from the other servants, and from cook who has been here for forty years or so, and I told her all the funny things her father did when he was a little boy, and she said it made her feel real acquainted with ’em.

“And she heard or read about putting candles and flowers in front of the statues and paintings of the saints, and she wanted to do it with her mother and father, but she knew she would be told not, so she used to put little bunches of flowers back of the pictures between them and the wall, and mercy knows if they have stained the wall paper. And when they was faded I used to take them out, and oh dear, she was so sweet!”

Minnie choked, Mrs. Hargrave cried quite openly, and Mrs. Horton, deadly pale and dry-eyed, sat shaking like a leaf, her eyes fixed on the painting of her son on the opposite wall.

“And I think it was a shame and a SIN and a CRIME,” said Minnie hotly, “that nobody but me did these things for her, Mrs. Hargrave, ma’am!

“And now she’s gone, and I’ll say she’s somewhere dead of a broken heart just because she wasn’t let to have a single friend and that Helen, the nicest child I ever did see except Miss Rosanna, and what if she was poor? And I don’t know what good blood is if it don’t show in nice manners and pretty speech and pleasant thoughts and Helen Culver had nothing else.

“Oh, I just feel we will never see Miss Rosanna again, and what did she wear off?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Horton, speaking for the first time.

“You better find out!” said Minnie tartly.

“The detectives know,” said Mrs. Horton.

“Oh, Mrs. Horton I sound hard on you, but it’s all true, and I can’t take it back, and I’m not working here or I wouldn’t have said it: but I wish there was something I could do. What can I do? I’d like to pick up her room if I might, please.”

“The detectives do not want it touched,” said Mrs. Horton. “There is nothing you can do.”

Minnie, wiping her eyes, vanished in the direction of the kitchen to see the cook, and Mrs. Horton turned to Mrs. Hargrave.

“Does it seem to you that these people have any right to attack me like this?” she asked with dry lips. “I was not hard with Rosanna. I loaded her with toys and pleasures, and I think they are all very hard on me.”

“What do you think about yourself?” asked Mrs. Hargrave gently. “Did you ever hold her and laugh with her, and tell her stories?”

“No; it was not my way,” said Mrs. Horton.

“But it was the way of a child,” said Mrs. Hargrave. “The way of a tender little motherless child! I do not want to be hard on you, but I have told you for forty years that your pride would be your undoing.”

“The telephone!” said Mrs. Horton. She rushed to the instrument and talked for a little with a member of the police force, then she came dragging back to the library.

“They have finished searching the hospitals, and nowhere is there a child answering to the description of Rosanna. I was actually hoping to find her in one of the hospitals.”

Suddenly she buried her proud head in her hands and broke into hard sobs. Mrs. Hargrave went over and put an arm around the bowed shoulders. Presently Mrs. Horton said: “If we only get her back! I never meant to be hard, but I did try so hard to bring her up so she would never have to live and die as unhappily as my little sister, and I felt that if she could be made unbending and proud she would never choose unworthy friends.”

“But you were wrong, my dear,” said Mrs. Hargrave. “Don’t you see it now? There is nothing to be gained in this life by remaining narrow. We must know life and our fellowmen in order to be able to choose wisely and well. How can we tell the worthy from the unworthy unless we have known enough of people to be able to recognize both the good and bad? Oh, Virginia! I feel that Rosanna will come back to you, to us, and we must remember that we are old women, and she is a child, and like calls to like. We must remember that God expects us to love and guide her but she must have friends and outside interests.”

“Oh, if she only, only comes back!” cried Mrs. Horton.