for her.
She was a lady to her finger-tips, that was evident; and--most potent
reason of all with Mrs. Wilkins--Mr. Liston had been her boarder and
friend for the past ten years.

So December came.

How the time had gone Norine could hardly have told--it did go somehow,
that was all. Trouble, remorse, despair, do not kill; she was still
alive and tolerably well, could eat and sleep, play the old tunes, even
sometimes sing the old songs. She looked at herself in a sort of dreary
wonder in the glass. The face she saw a little paler than of old, was
fair and youthful still--the bright hair glossy and abundant as ever.
She had read of people whose hair turned gray with trouble; hers had
passed and left no sign, only on the lips that had forgotten to smile,
the eyes that never lit into gladness or hope, and the heart that lay
like lead in her bosom.

The crisp, frosty December days seemed to fly, bringing with them his
wedding-day. Every hour now the old agony of that night in the Chelsea
cottage came back to stab her through. The seventh of December was the
day--could she bear it?--and it was in her power even yet, Mr. Liston
told her, to prevent it. Twice during the last fortnight she had seen
him, the first time, when, closely veiled, her dress had brushed him on
Broadway. He was advancing with another gentleman, both were smoking,
both were laughing gayly at some good story Thorndyke seemed to be
telling. Handsome, elegant, well-dressed, nonchalant, he passed her,
actually turning to glance after the graceful figure and veiled face.

"That figure should belong to a pretty girl," she had heard him say.
"Deuce take the veils, what do they wear 'em for. There--there's
something oddly familiar about her, too."

She had turned sick and faint, she leaned against a store window for a
moment, the busy street going round and round. So they had met and
parted again.

The second time it was almost worse. Mr. Liston had taken her to the
opera--in her passionate love of music she could forget, for a few brief
hours, her pain, when, coming out, in the crush, they had come almost
face to face. His bride elect was on his arm, by instinct she knew it, a
tall, stylish girl, in sweeping draperies, with blonde hair, blue eyes,
and a skin like pearl. He was bending his tall head over her,
devotedly; both looked brilliantly handsome and happy.

"For Heaven's sake, come this way!" Liston had cried, and drawn her with
him hurriedly in