was she inclined to tell the story of her own
dark past. It was a bond between herself, and Helen, and Mr. Gilbert. In
spite of herself she had learned to love him, to know him, to value him.
She turned her wistful eyes to his face, but those dark, lustrous looks
had fooled him once--he was not the man to make himself any woman's
puppet, and dance as she pulled the strings. He saw nothing but that she
was rich, far beyond all riches of his, more beautiful with every
passing year, surrounded by young and handsome men, ready to marry her
at any moment. She had flung him off, unable to love him years ago. Was
it likely that old, and gray, and grim, she could care for him now? He
laughed, in a dreary sort of mockery, at the bare thought. Love and
marriage had gone out of his life forever; he must be content with
Helen's trust and friendship, until some more favored man bore her off,
too, with her children; until they also outgrew childish loves. That the
world coupled his name with hers, in _that_ way, he absolutely never
dreamed.

Another May had come, and Norine, wearied of it all, and full of
nameless restlessness, took a sudden resolution. She would go abroad. In
travel she would find change and peace, and when Helen became his wife
she, at least, would not be here to see it.

As she walked up and down, deep in her own somber thoughts, the boudoir
door opened, and Helen herself came in--she was passing these last days
with her friend--came in looking tall and stately, and very fair in her
trailing black dress, and most becoming widow's cap.

"Mr. Gilbert has come, Nory," she says. "Will you go down or shall he
come up?"

A lovely rose pink flushes into Norine's face. She keeps it averted from
Helen as she replies:

"It doesn't matter, does it?" with elaborate carelessness; "he may as
well come up. I wish to speak to him on legal business. Susan, you may
go for the present."

So Susan goes, and Mrs. Thorndyke returns to the drawing-room and tells
Mr. Gilbert, Norine will see him up-stairs. He goes up stairs, and
appears presently before the mistress of the house, rather paler than
usual if she did but notice it.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gilbert," she says, coming forward with outstretched
hand and a smile. "I heard from Liston you had returned to town, and
sent for you at once. I hope you enjoyed your trip to Baltimore?"

"As much as one usually enjoys a flying visit, forced upon one at a most
inopportune time. I w