' The afternoon went on--my mother never
resting, but seeking again and again in every possible place that
had been looked into twenty times before, nay, that she had looked
into over and over again herself. My father sat with his head in
his hands, not speaking except when his messengers came in,
bringing no tidings; then he lifted up his face, so strong and sad,
and told them to go again in some new direction. My mother kept
passing from room to room, in and out of the house, moving
noiselessly, but never ceasing. Neither she nor my father durst
leave the house, which was the meeting-place for all the
messengers. At last (and it was nearly dark), my father rose up.
He took hold of my mother's arm as she came with wild, sad pace
through one door, and quickly towards another. She started at the
touch of his hand, for she had forgotten all in the world but
Peter.
"'Molly!' said he, 'I did not think all this would happen.' He
looked into her face for comfort--her poor face all wild and white;
for neither she nor my father had dared to acknowledge--much less
act upon--the terror that was in their hearts, lest Peter should
have made away with himself. My father saw no conscious look in
his wife's hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the sympathy that she
had always been ready to give him--strong man as he was, and at the
dumb despair in her face his tears began to flow.
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