younger Miss Waddle found her when she came to call her
in to supper.

She drank her tea thirstily, but she could eat nothing. Immediately
after the lonely meal, she hastened to her room, and throwing a shawl
around her, sat down in the easy chair by the window to watch and wait.
He had told her not to sit up for him--it would annoy him probably to be
disobeyed, but she could not go to bed, for in the darkness and the
quiet, lying down, she knew how she would toss wakefully about until she
had thought herself into a fever.

Night fell. Outside the sea spread black, away until it melted into the
blacker sky. The wind sighed fitfully, the stars shone frostily bright.
Inside, the little piano in the parlor, played upon by the elder Miss
Waddle, after her day's teaching, made merry music. In the intervals,
when it was silent, the younger Miss Waddle read chapters aloud from her
latest novel. Ten, eleven struck, then the parlor lights went out, doors
were locked, and the Misses Waddle went up stairs to their maiden
slumbers.

The pale little watcher by the window sat on, hoping against hope. He
might come, and be it late or early she must be awake and waiting, to
throw herself into his manly arms and implore his lordly pardon. She
could never sleep more until she had sobbed out her penitence and been
forgiven. But the long, dark, dragging, lonely hours wore on. One, two,
three, four, and the little, white, sad face lay against the cold glass,
the dark, mournful eyes strained themselves through the murky gloom to
catch the first glimpse of their idol. Five! the cold gray dawn of
another day crept over sea and woodland, and worn out with watching,
chilled to the bone, the child's head fell back, the heavy eyelids
swayed and drooped, and she lay still.

So, when two hours later Mr. Laurence Thorndyke, smelling stronger than
ever of cigars and brandy, as the younger Miss Waddle's disgusted nose
testified, came into the silent chamber, he found her. The pretty head,
with all its dark, rippling ringlets, lay against the back of the chair,
the small face looked deathly in its spent sleep. She had watched and
waited for him here all night. And remembering how, over the card table
and the wine bottle, his night had been passed, utterly forgetful of
her, the first pang of real unselfish remorse this young gentleman had
ever felt, came to him then.

"Poor little heart!" he thought; "poor little, pretty Norine. I wish to
Heaven I