Part 2 (1/2)

The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, Her husband sought wildly, but found her not.--THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

When Lyon Berners and his faithful servant returned to the Haunted Chapel, after having comfortably disposed of their horses for the rest of the night, the interior was still so dark that they did not at first discover the absence of Sybil, especially as the covering lay heaped upon the mattress so like a sleeping form, that even in a less murky darkness it might have been mistaken for her.

As it was now very cold, Mr. Berners, who had found a tinder-box and a coil of wax tapers among his other effects in the wagon, struck a light, with the intention of kindling a fire.

Joe brought some broken sticks and dry brushwood from the far corner where Lyon Berners had piled it up just before the flight from the chapel, and between the master and man they soon kindled a cheerful blaze that lighted up every nook and crevice of the old interior.

Then Mr. Berners turned toward the mattress to see how his wife might be sleeping.

”Why, she is not here! She has waked up and walked out,” he exclaimed, in some surprise and annoyance, but not in the least alarm, for he naturally supposed that she had only left the chapel for a few minutes, and would soon return.

”Hi! whar de debbil she took herself off to, all alone, dis onlawful time o' de night?” cried Joe, in dismay.

”Oh, not far! She will soon be back again,” answered Mr. Berners cheerfully. And then he took one of the blankets from the mattress and folded it up for a seat, and sat down upon it near the fire, and stretched his benumbed hands over the blaze. Joe followed his example, stretching out his hands also, and staring across the fire at his master--staring at such a rate that Mr. Berners, feeling somewhat inconvenienced, sharply demanded:

”What the deuce do you mean by that, Joe?”

”I want to go and sarch for my mistess. I don't feel satisfied into my own mind about her.”

”Why, what are you afraid of, man?”

”_Ghostesses._”

”Absurd!”

”Well, now, no it an't, marster. I've knowed Miss Sybil longer'n you have. I've knowed her ever since she was born, and I don't believe as she'd go out all alone by herself in the dead of night to the lonesome church-yard--that I don't. And I's afeard as the ghostesses have spirited her away.”

”Preposterous, Joe! Have you lived in an intelligent family, and in a Christian community all your life, to believe in 'ghostesses,' as you call them? Are you such a big fool as all that, at your time of life?”

”Yes, marster, I's jest sich a big fool as all that, at my time of life.

And I want to go out and sarch for my young mistess,” said Joe, in the spirit of ”dogged persistence,” as he began to gather himself up.

”Stop, stay where you are. If one of us must go, it must be myself,”

said Mr. Berners.

”Which would be a heap the most properest proceedings, any ways,”

muttered Joe, sulkily settling himself in his seat again, in a manner that seemed to say, ”And I wonder why you didn't do it before.”

”She really ought to be back by this time, even if she went out but the moment before we returned; and she may have gone out before that,”

murmured Mr. Berners, with some little vague uneasiness, as he arose and b.u.t.toned his overcoat, and went into the church-yard.

The day was dawning, and the old tombstones gleamed faintly from their bushes, in the pale gray light of early morning.

”She cannot have gone far; she would not venture; she must be very near,” he said to himself, and he murmured softly:

”_Sybil! Sybil!_ where are you, love?”

There was no answer, and he raised his voice a little.