ert's frigid response. The sight of Norine
bending over that recumbent figure gave him a sensation of actual
physical pain. He knew what this languid, graceful, slow speaking young
Sybarite's life had been, if she did not.

Just at that moment--and it was a relief, Aunt Hester entered, followed
by Uncles Reuben and Joe. No restraint here, no doubt about his welcome
from them, no change in the place he held in their esteem and affection.
Tea was ready, would everybody please to come.

Mr. Thorndyke's fractured limb was by no means equal to locomotion, so
Uncle Reuben wheeled him, sofa and all, into the next room, and Aunt
Hester and Norine vied with each other in waiting on him. It comes
natural to all women to pet sick men--if the man be young and handsome,
why it comes all the more naturally.

Mr. Thorndyke wasn't sick by any means--that was all over and done with.
He took his tea from Aunt Hester's hand and drank it, his toast and
chicken from Norine and ate them. He talked to them both in that lazy,
pleasant voice of his, or lay silent and stroked his mustache with his
diamond-ringed hand, and looked handsome, and whether the talk or the
silence were most dangerous, it would have puzzled a cleverer man than
Richard Gilbert to tell. To sit there listening to Aunt Hester chirping
and Uncle Reuben prosing, and see the blue eyes making love, in eloquent
silence, to the black ones, was almost too much for human nature to
endure. She sat there silent, shy, all unlike the bright, chattering
Norine of the summer gone, but with, oh! such an infinitely happy face!
She sat beside Laurence Thorndyke--she ministered to that convalescent
appetite of his, and that was enough. What need of speech when silence
is so sweet?

Supper ended, Mr. Thorndyke was wheeled back to his post in the front
room beside the fire. Norine never came near him all the rest of the
evening, she sat at the little piano, and poured out her whole heart in
song. Richard Gilbert, full of miserable, knawing jealousy, understood
those songs; perhaps Laurence Thorndyke, lying with half-closed eyes,
half-smiling lips, did too. They were old-fashioned songs that the
lawyer had sent her, favorites of his own: "Twere vain to tell thee all
I feel," and "Drink to me only with thine eyes." Yes, the meaning of
those tender old ballads was not for him. It was maddening to see
Laurence Thorndyke lying there, with that conscious smile on his lips;
he could endure no mor