gun even
to forget yet, after all?

She opened her eyes suddenly while Aunt Hetty was thinking this, and
spoke abruptly.

"What did Mr. Thorndyke say when he found I was gone?"

"Nothing. Oh--he asked how long you were going to stay."

"Was that all?"

"That was all."

"Did he not inquire where I had gone?"

"No, my dear."

Norine said no more. The firelight shone full on her face, and she
lifted a book and held it as a screen. So long she sat mute and
motionless that Aunt Hetty fancied she had fallen asleep. She laid her
hand on her shoulder. Norine's black, sombre eyes looked up.

"I thought you were asleep, my dear, you sat so still. Is anything the
matter?"

"I am tired, and my head aches. I believe I will go to bed."

"But, Norry, it is Christmas eve. Supper is ready, and--"

"I can't eat supper--I don't wish any. Give me a cup of tea, aunty, and
let me go."

With a sigh, aunty obeyed, and slowly and wearily Norine toiled up to
her room. It was very cosy, very pleasant, very home-like and warm, that
snug upper chamber, with its striped, home-made carpet of scarlet and
green, its blazing fire and shaded lamp. Outside, the keen, Christmas
stars shone coldly, and the world lay white in its chill winding sheet
of snow.

But Norine thought neither of the comfort within nor the desolation
without. She sank down into a low chair before the fire and looked
blankly into the red coals.

"Gone!" something in her head seemed beating that one word, like the
ticking of a clock; "gone--gone--gone forever. And it was only thirty
miles, and the cars would have taken him, and he never came. And I
thought, I thought, he liked me a little."

It was a dismal Christmas eve at Kent Farm; how were they to eat, drink
and be merry with Norine absent. No she had not begun to forget; the
mischief was wrought, every room in the house was haunted by the image
of the "youth who had loved, and who rode away."

The New Year dawned, passed, and the ides of February came. And
Norine--she was only seventeen, remember, began to pluck up heart of
grace once more, and her laugh rang out, and her songs began to be as
merry, almost, as before the coming and going of Prince Charming.
Almost; the woman's heart had awakened in the girl's breast, and the old
childish joyousness could never be quite the same. He never wrote, she
never heard his name, even Mr. Gilbert had ceased to write. March came.
"Time, that blunts the edge of things