She had simply disappeared.

In all that crowded city her mother could find no trace of her.

"It is now thirteen years, ma'am, since I lost her." But all through those thirteen years that poor mother had watched and waited for her.

All through those weary years, whenever she read in the local paper of some poor girl's body being found in the river, some poor suicide, who had leapt, "Mad from life's history, Swift to death's mystery, Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world," that poor mother would get into her head it might be her dear girl that was lying there alone and unclaimed; and she would pay her fare--if she could afford it--or if not, trudge the distance on foot, creep, trembling, into the mortuary or the public-house where the body lay, blue from drowning, or with the ugly red gash across the throat, take one look, and then cry with a sigh of relief, "No, it ain't my child," and return again to her watching and waiting.
"Once, ma'am," she said, "I had a dream.

I saw a beautiful place, all bright and shiny, and there were lots of angels singing so sweet, when out of the midst of the glory came my poor girl.