the manger, and keep some more fortunate
man from loving and marrying her? most certainly not. Then why had he
come? At this juncture he set his teeth, took up the _Herald_ and
scowled moodily at its printed pages all day long.

He slept that night in Boston, and next morning resumed his journey. He
reached Portland before noon, dined at his usual hotel, and then, as the
afternoon sun began to drop low in the wintry sky, set out on foot for
Kent Farm.

How familiar it all was; how often, when the fields were green, the
trees waving, and the birds singing, he had walked this road beside
Norine. But the fields were white with snow to-day, the trees black,
gaunt skeletons, and the July birds dead or gone. All things had changed
in four months--why not Norine as well?

It was four by the lawyer's watch as he raised the latch of the garden
gate, and walked up the snow-shrouded path. There stood the gnarled old
apple tree, with its rustic chair, but the tree was leafless, and the
chair empty. Doors and windows had stood wide when he saw them last,
with sunshine and summer floating in; now all were closed, and the
December blasts howled around the gables. There was no one to be seen,
but the red light of a fire streamed brightly out through the curtains
of the keeping-room.

He went slowly up the steps, opened the front door, and entered the
hall. The door of that best apartment stood half open, light and warmth,
voices and laughter came through. Mr. Gilbert paused on the threshold an
instant, and looked at the picture within.

A very pretty picture.

The room was lit by the leaping fire alone. Seated on a low stool,
before the fire and beside the sofa, he saw Norine. She was reading
aloud the lovely story of _Lalla Rookh_. He had sent her the green and
gilt volume himself. She wore a crimson merino dress, over which her
black hair fell, and in the fantastic firelight how fair the dark,
piquant face looked, the dark eyes were bent upon her book, and the soft
voice was the only sound in the room.

On the sofa, perilously near, lay the "gentleman" of her letter--the
hero of the broken arm and sprained ankle, who was "very nice." And
Richard Gilbert looking, gave a great start.

He knew him.

His worst fears were realized. He saw a man both young and
good-looking--something more, indeed, than good-looking. The face was
thin and pale, but when was that a fault in the eyes of a girl!--a tall
figure in a dark suit, brown