asty, after all. Perhaps Norine was back.

But Norine was not back. The house was empty and desolate--Aunt Hetty
sat crying alone. She had gone and left no trace behind, not one word,
no note, no letter. Her clothes were all untouched, except those she had
worn, and her waterproof cloak. Surely she had never meant to run away,
or she would have gone differently from that, and left some line of
farewell, some prayer for pardon behind. It must be as Mr. Gilbert had
said--the villain had taken her by force.

And while the rainy afternoon deepened into night, the two sad, silent
men sat side by side, flying along to Boston. At every station inquiries
were made, but no one had seen anything of a young girl and a young man
answering the description given. So many came and went always it was
impossible to remember. So when night fell in lashing rain and raw east
wind the lawyer and the farmer were in Boston, and no trace of runaway
Norine had been found.

CHAPTER IX.

"MRS. LAURENCE."

It was eleven o'clock on the Wednesday morning following that eventful
Monday night. In an upper room, a private parlor of a Boston hotel,
seated in an easy chair, was Miss Norine Bourdon. They had arrived this
morning, and in the hotel book their names were registered "Mr. and Mrs.
John Laurence."

At the present moment Miss Bourdon is alone. Her dark face is very pale,
her eyelids are red from much weeping; at intervals, as she sits and
thinks, the lovely dark eyes fill, the childlike lips quiver, and a sob
catches her breath. And yet she is not really very unhappy. Is she not
with Laurence? Before another hour passes will she not be his wife? and
what is the love of aunt or uncle, what the friendship of a thousand Mr.
Gilberts compared to the bliss of that? Truth to tell, the first shock
of consternation at her enforced flight over, Norine had found
forgiveness easy. She was only seventeen, remember; she was intensely
romantic; she loved him with her whole, passionate heart--a heart
capable, even at seventeen, of loving, and--who was to tell?--perhaps of
hating very strongly. And most girls like bold lovers. It was a very
daring _coup de main_, this carrying her off, quite like something in a
last century novel, and with his tender, persuasive voice in her ear,
his protecting arm about her waist, with her own heart pleading for him,
Norine was driven away a not unwilling captive.

"I have arranged everything, my pet," said Mr.