n the anguish of a last farewell?

"What God hath joined together let no man put asunder!"

It is over. He draws a long, hard breath of relief. Come what may, Helen
is his wife.

They rise; they file slowly and gracefully out of the church; the bride
hanging on the bridegroom's arm. Closely, very closely, they pass one
particular pew wherein a solitary figure stands. She has risen with the
rest; she has flung back her veil, and people who glance at her stop
involuntarily and look again. The face is like stone, the dark eyes all
wild and wide, the lips apart; she stands as if slowly petrifying. But
the bridal party do not see her; they pass on, and out.

"Who is she?" strangers whisper. "Has she known Laurence Thorndyke?"

Then they too, go, and all is over.

The wedding party enter their carriages and are whirled away. Mr Liston
sees his employer safely off, then returns hurriedly to the church. He
is angry with Norine, but it is his duty to look after her, and
something in her face to-day has made him afraid. There is nothing to
fear, however; she is very quiet now; she sunk down upon her knees, her
head has fallen forward upon the rail. He speaks to her; she does not
answer. He touches her on the shoulder; she does not look up. He lifts
her head--yes, it is as he feared. The edifice is almost deserted now;
he takes her in his arms and carries her out into the air. For the
second time in her life she has fainted entirely away.

CHAPTER XVI.

"HIS NAME IS LAURENCE THORNDYKE."

A gray March afternoon is blustering itself out in the streets of New
York--a slate-colored sky, fast drifting with black, rainy clouds; the
wind sobs and shivers in great dusty soughs, and pedestrians bow
involuntarily before it, and speed along with winking and watery eyes.

In a quiet, old-fashioned street--for there are quiet, old-fashioned
streets even in New York--there stands a big, square, dingy, red brick
house, set in a square of grass-grown front garden, a square of brick
paving in the rear. Two slim poplars--"old maids of the forest," lift
their tall, prim green heads on either side of the heavy hall door. The
house looks comfortable, but gloomy, and that is precisely what it is,
this dun-colored spring day, comfortable, but gloomy. There are heavy
curtains of dark, rich damask draping the windows. Through the clear
panes of one of the upper windows you catch the flicker and fall of a
red coal fire, and the sombre be