What they knew—and they now consisted of Penelope, Sarah, Joshua, Clarice, Ricey, and Ichabod out of sight beyond the window—was that they knew nothing at all of where she was. Sarah blamed herself aloud and silently, which gave them all a certain satisfaction, since the real culprit was not present to be scored.

“Uncle Joshua,” Penelope said, “will you send Ichabod to enquire if Judge Truebody is free to come and talk to me?”

“I won’t send, I’ll go myself.”

Judge Horace Truebody was Penelope’s old and especially valued friend, having been her father’s lawyer and entrusted with the management of his and subsequently her estate. Penelope had always consulted him before making any important decision. He had advised her to take the nieces into her house and care when they were orphaned—not that she needed to be told her duty—but he had felt that the living arrangement might benefit her as well as them. And so it had, providing companionship for the spinster and guidance for the girls.

On the present occasion he came to her side within the hour, and within another he had set off to Port Wentworth to make enquiries. Before night fell he was again at the house on Broughton Street with news. He had found the minister who had married the young lovers and so was able to reassure Penelope that “the worst” had not transpired. Her niece Lauretta, however foolishly, was truly married. People might laugh; they could not scorn. As to her present whereabouts, he could give less comfort. A sloop had sailed that morning from Port Wentworth to Baltimore, and a young couple fitting the general description of Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Savage had taken passage.

“What must I do?” Penelope asked.

“That which is most difficult,” Judge Truebody replied. “Nothing. Wait and see. The young woman has been inconsiderate, perhaps rash, but only time will tell. The only sensible and practical advice I can give you is to let a little water flow under the bridge and see if it runs clear or muddy. What cannot be helped must be endured.” Judge Truebody was given to such familiar old sayings. He had learned early in life that they gave his listener as much comfort and reassurance as did his name.

Miss Penelope bowed her head, to Judge Truebody and to fate. She thanked the old man who was obviously tired from his efforts on her behalf, and he went away.

Sarah and her aunt had kept to the house all day long as if waiting, without quite hoping, for a message from Lauretta. The next morning when they sat down to a plain breakfast of grits and fried eggs after a night during which each had paced the floor of her room more than she had slept in her bed, a message of another sort and from another source, totally unexpected, arrived.