eceived
her--what right had he to look for mercy in return? As he had sown, so
must he reap.

She scarcely turned at his approach. How pale she was, and the large
dark eyes she lifted were full of a child's startled terror.

"Norine," he abruptly began, "there is no help for it--I must go to New
York to-morrow."

Her lips trembled a little.

"To-morrow," she repeated, under her breath---"so soon!"

"Rather short notice, I admit, but then you see it--it isn't for a
lifetime. All husbands and wives part once in a while and survive it.
Come, Norine," with irritated impatience, "don't wear that woe-begone
face! I'm not to blame, I can't help it. You don't suppose I want to
leave you. But here's Liston--my uncle's man. You heard him yourself.
You saw the letter commanding my return."

"The letter," she repeated, looking at him; "there were two!"

"Ah--yes--two, so there were. But the other was merely a note from a
friend. I leave at noon to-morrow, so see that my valise is packed, and
everything all right, that's a good child. And do try to get rid of that
white, reproachful face, unless you want it to haunt me like the face of
a ghost."

He spoke with irritated petulance--at war with her, with himself, and
his smouldering ill-temper breaking forth. It was the first time he had
ever spoken sharply to her. A faint flush rose to her cheeks. She
clasped both hands around his arm and looked up in his moody,
discontented face with piteous imploring eyes.

"Don't be vexed, Laurence; I don't mean to reproach you, indeed, and I
know you cannot help it. Only, dear, I love you so much, and--and it is
our first parting, and I have been so happy here--so happy here--"

For a minute her voice broke, and she laid her face against his
shoulder.

Mr. Thorndyke smothered a suppressed groan.

"O Jupiter! here it is! Tears, and scenes and hysterics. I knew how it
would be, they all will do it, every chance. Norine!"--aloud and still
impatient--"for pity's sake, don't cry--it's something I can't stand.
Here! I'll throw my uncle, his fortune and favor, and all the hopes and
ambitions of my life to the winds, and stay here, and bill and coo, all
the rest of my life. If I can't go in peace I won't go at all."

She lifted her head as if he had struck her. Something in his tone, in
his words, in his face, dried her tears effectually, at once and
forever.

"I beg your pardon, Laurence," she said, suddenly, in an altered voice.
"I w