away from her resolutely.

"There is no forgiveness needed, Norine. I admire your truthful and
plain-spoken spirit. Only you see I thought Norine Bourdon a loving,
gentle, forgiving little soul, who cared for me so much that she was
ready to forgive me seventy-times-seven, and I find, according to her
own showing, she is a strong-minded woman, ready to wreak vengeance for
the first wrong done her--ready for love or hatred at a moment's notice.
It is well you told me--it is always best to understand one another. No,
we won't have any tender scenes, if you please, Mrs. Laurence--I have
found out exactly what they are worth." He pulled out his watch. "I have
business over in Boston, and as it is growing late I will be off at
once. If I am very late--as is likely--I must beg you will not sit up
for me. Good-afternoon."

He lifted his hat ceremoniously, as to an indifferent acquaintance, and
walked deliberately away.

She stood stock still where he had left her, and watched the tall,
active figure out of sight. Then she sat down, feeling suddenly weak and
faint, and lay back against the green mound. For a moment sea, and sky,
and sands swam before her in a hot mist, and then the faintness passed
away, leaving her tearless and trembling.

What did he mean?

He had talked of deserting her? Did he mean it? A hand of ice seemed to
clutch her heart at the thought. No no, no! he had only been trying
her--proving what her love was worth. And she had answered him like that
she would hate him and be revenged. He had called her a "strong-minded
woman,"--a term of bitter reproach--and no wonder. No wonder he was
angry, hurt, outraged. Why had she said such a horrible thing? She
hardly knew herself--the words seemed to have come to her instinctively.
Were they true? She did know that either--just now she knew nothing but
that Laurence had left her in anger for the first time, that he would
probably not return until to-morrow morning, the fateful to-morrow that
was to take him from her for--how long?

She broke down then, and laying her face against the soft, cool grass,
gave way to a storm of impassioned weeping, that shook her like a reed.
"The strong-minded woman" was gone, and only a child that had done wrong
and is sorry--a weak girl weeping for her lost lover, remained.

The afternoon waned, the twilight fell, the wind arose chilly from the
sea. And pallid as a spirit, shivering in the damp air, silent and
spiritless, the