In a moment a new burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers also--that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs.Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs.Harper's.
The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then--the horror of utter darkness reigned! How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell.

All that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more.

Tom said it might be Sunday, now--maybe Monday.

He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone.

Tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on.