mantic little heart, and who is to blame her if
it turns to him, young and handsome as she is herself, instead of to the
grave, dull, middle-aged lawyer. And yet, it will be very hard to say
good-by."

He broke down for a moment, alone as he was. A great flood of
recollection came over him--the thought of parting--now--was bitter
indeed. A vision rose before him--Norine as he had seen her first,
standing shyly downcast in the train, her dark, childlike eyes glancing
imploringly around, the sensitive color coming and going in her innocent
face. She arose before him again as he had seen her later, flushed and
downcast, sweet and smiling, bending over Laurence Thorndyke, with
"Love's young dream" written in every line of her happy face. Again as
he had seen her that day when he spoke, pale, startled, troubled, afraid
to accept, afraid to refuse, and faltering out the words that made him
so idiotically happy, with her little, white, handsome face, keeping its
startled pallor.

"Yes," he said, "yes, yes, I see it all. She said 'yes,' because it is
not in her yielding, gentle, child's heart to say no. And now she is
repenting when she thinks it too late. But it is not too late; to-morrow
I will speak and she will answer, and if there be one lingering doubt in
her mind, we will shake hands and part. My little love! I wish for your
sake Laurence Thorndyke were worthy of you, and might return; but to
meet him again is the worst fate that can befall you, and in three
months poor Helen Holmes will be his bride."

Hark! was that a sound? He broke off his reverie to listen. No, all was
still again--only the surging of the wind in the maples.

"It certainly sounded like the opening of a door below," he thought; "a
rat perhaps--all are in bed."

He was looking blankly out into the windy darkness. This time to-morrow
night his fate would be decided. Would he still be in this room, waiting
for Thursday morning to dawn and give him Norine, or--

He broke off abruptly again. Was that a figure moving down in the gloom
to the gate? Surely not, and yet something moved. A second more, and it
had vanished. Was this fancy, too? He waited, he listened. Clearly
through the dusk, borne on the wind, there came to him the faint,
far-off sound of a laugh.

"Who can it be?" he thought, puzzled. "No fancy this time. I certainly
heard a laugh. Rather an odd hour and lonely spot for mirth."

He listened once more, and once more, fainter and fart