, dries our tears and spoils our
bliss," had dried all hers long ago, and the splendor of Laurence
Thorndyke's image was wofully dimmed by this time. Life had flown back
into the old, dull channels, comfortable, but dull. No letters to look
for now from Mr. Gilbert, no books, no music, everybody forgot her,
Richard Gilbert, Laurence Thorndyke--all.

She sighed a little over the quilt she was making--a wonderful quilt of
white and "Turkey red," a bewildering Chinese puzzle to the uninitiated.
It was a dull March afternoon, cheerless and slushy, the house still as
a tomb, and no living thing to be seen in the outer world, as she sat
alone at her work.

"What a stupid, dismal humdrum sort of life it is." Miss Bourdon
thought, drearily, "and I suppose it will go on for thirty or forty
years exactly like this, and I'll dry up, and wrinkle and grow yellow
and ugly, and be an old maid like Aunt Hetty. I think it would be a
great deal better if some people never were born at all."

She paused suddenly, with this wise generality in her mind. A man was
approaching--a tall man, a familiar and rather distinguished-looking
man. One glance was enough. With a cry of delight she dropped the
Chinese-puzzle quilt, sprang up, rushed out, and plumped full into the
arms of the gentleman.

"Oh, Mr. Gilbert!" she cried, her black eyes, her whole face radiant
with the delight of seeing some one, "how glad I am to see you! It has
been so dull, and I thought you had forgotten us altogether. Come
in--come in."

She held both his hands, and pulled him in. Unhappy Richard Gilbert! Who
is to blame you for construing that enthusiastic welcome to suit
yourself? In fear and foreboding, you had approached that house--you had
looked for coldness, aversion, reproaches, perhaps. You had nerved
yourself to bear them, and defend yourself, and instead--_this_.

His sallow face flushed all over with a delight more vivid than her own.
For one delicious moment his breath stopped.

"And so you have thought of me, Norine!"

"Oh, so often! And hoped, and longed, and looked for your coming. But
you never came, and you never wrote, and I was sure you had forgotten me
altogether."

Here was an opening, and--he let it fall dead! He might be a clever
lawyer, but certainly he was not a clever lover. He was smiling, and
yes, actually blushing, and tingling with delight to his finger ends.
Her radiant, blooming face was upturned to him, the black eyes lifted
an