had never heard of Gilbert's projected marriage--I wish I had
never gone back to Kent Farm."

Five hours later, and white and tearless, Norine is clinging to him in
the speechless pain of parting. Is there some presentiment, that she
herself cannot understand, even now in her heart, that it is forever?

"Don't--_don't_ look so white and wild, Norry," he is saying hurriedly.
"I wish, I wish I need not leave you. Little one--little Norry, whatever
happens, you--you'll try and forgive me, won't you? Don't hate me if you
can help it."

She does not understand him--she just clings to him, as though death
were easier than to let him go.

"Time's up, Mr. Laurence!" calls out the sharp voice of little Mr.
Liston, sitting in the light wagon at the door; "if you linger five
minutes more we'll lose our train."

"Good-by, Norine--good-by!"

He is glad to be called, glad to break away from the gentle arms that
would hold him there forever. He kisses her hurriedly, frees himself
from her clasp, and leaves her standing stricken and speechless in the
middle of the floor.

"Thank Heaven that's over!" he says, almost savagely, "drive like the
devil, Liston! I won't breath freely until I am out of sight of the
house."

Mr. Liston obeys.

She stands where he has left her, rigid, tearless, white, listening to
the rapid roll of the wheels over the gravel, over the road, growing
faint and fainter, and dying out far off. Then she sinks down, and she
and her lover have parted forever.

CHAPTER XII.

THE TRUTH.

A bleak autumnal afternoon, a gray, fast-drifting sky overhead, a raw
wind sweeping up from the shore, the sea itself all blurred and blotted
out in the chilly, creeping fog. At the parlor-window of Sea View
Cottage, Norine stands looking wistfully, wearily out. Three weeks have
passed since her husband left her--it is seven weeks altogether since
the memorable night of her elopement. These last three, lonely weeks
have wrought their sad, inevitable change. The small face has grown
smaller the large dark eyes seem unnaturally large for the wan face. A
sad, patient light fills them. The slight form has grown fragile, the
hands that hang loosely clasped before her are almost transparent. As
she stands here watching, waiting, she slips, unconsciously, her wedding
ring up and down her finger. So thin that finger has grown that every
now and then the ring drops loosely off altogether. Within, it is
pleasant enough. A