. No thought of going to bed,
or doing anything so commonplace as sleeping occurred to her. She
wrapped herself in a shawl, seated herself by the window, and so for
hours and hours sat motionless.

After all was love worth what she was about to give up for it--home,
friends, a good man's trust, her soul's truth and honor? Was Laurence
Thorndyke worth more to her than all the world beside, more than the
peace of her own conscience. Richard Gilbert loved her, honored her,
trusted her, she had taken his gifts, she had pledged herself to be his
wife. This very day, dawning yonder over the hills of Maine, would see
him here to claim her as his own forever. Was one sight of Laurence
Thorndyke's face, one touch of his hand, one seductive tone of his voice
sufficient to make her fling honor and truth to the winds, desert her
best, her only friends, break her plighted husband's heart, and make her
memory a shame and pain to them all forever? Oh, what a wretch she was,
what cruel, selfish passion this love she felt must be!

The sun rose up between the fleecy clouds, filling the world with
jubilant brightness, the sweet scents of sunrise in the country perfumed
the warm air. Norine threw up her window and leaned out, worn and
fevered with her night's vigil. That meeting under the trees seemed a
long way off now, it was as if she had lived years in a few brief hours.
Presently there was a rap at the door, and Aunt Hetty's voice outside
spoke.

"Are you up, Norry? is your headache better, dear?"

"Much better, aunty--I'll be down directly."

"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," said aunty, and Norine got
wearily up, and bathed her face, brushed out her tangled curls,
shrinking guiltily from her own pallid face in the glass.

"How wretchedly haggard I look," she thought, drearily; "surely every
one who looks at me will read my guilt in my face."

She went down stairs. Aunt Hetty nearly dropped the sweet, smelling
plate of hot muffins at sight of her.

"You're whiter than a ghost, child!" she cried. "You told me you were
better."

"I am better, aunty. Oh, pray don't mind my looks. Last night's
headache has made me pale--I will be as well as ever after breakfast."

But breakfast was only a pretence as far she was concerned, and the day
wore on and the fair, young face kept its pallid, startled look. She
could do nothing, neither read or sew, she wandered about the house like
a restless spirit, only shrinking from that