to do something wrong. All sorts of wild imaginings
rushed in upon him, and in his effort to rid himself of them he made
an unconscious gesture, and seized hold of the door-knob. A hasty
fluttering motion was heard from within, and presently the door was
opened. A fair and slender lady with a sweet pale face stood before
him; in one hand she held a needle, and in the other a bright-colored
garment which resembled a baby's jacket. He felt rather than saw that
he was in Emily's presence. His head and his heart seemed equally
turbulent. A hundred memories from the buried past rose dimly into
sight, and he could not chase them away. It was so difficult, too, to
identify this grave and worn, though still young face, with that soft,
dimpled, kitten-like Emily, who had conquered his youth and made his
life hers. Ah! poor little dimpled Emily; yes, he feared she would
never return to him. And he sighed at the thought that she had
probably lost now all that charming naughtiness which he had once
spent so much time in disapproving of. He was suddenly roused from
these reflections by a vague, half-whispered cry; Emily had fled to
the other end of the room, thrown herself on the bed, and pressed her
face hard down among the pillows. It was an act which immediately
recalled the Emily of former days, a childish, and still natural
motion like that of some shy and foolish animal which believes itself
safe when its head is hidden. Storm closed the door, walked up to the
bed, and seated himself on a hard, wooden chair.

"Emily," he said at last.

She raised herself abruptly on her arms, and gazed at him over her
shoulder with large, tearless, frightened eyes.

"Edmund," she whispered doubtfully. "Edmund."

"Yes, Emily," he answered in a soothing voice, as one speaks to a
frightened child. "I have come to see you and to speak with you."

"You have come to see me, Edmund," she repeated mechanically. Then, as
if the situation were gradually dawning upon her, "You have come to
see _me_."

His _role_ had appeared so easy as he had hastily sketched it on the
way,--gratitude on her part, forgiveness on his, and then a speedy
reconciliation. But it was the exquisite delicacy of Storm's nature
which made him shrink from appearing in any way to condescend, to
patronize, to forgive, where perhaps he needed rather to be forgiven.
A strange awkwardness had come over him. He felt himself suddenly to
be beyond his depth. How unpardonably blunt a