[Transcriber's Note: Hyphenation standardized. Archaic and variable spelling was preserved as printed. Missing quotation marks were added to standardize usage. Otherwise, the editor's punctuation style was preserved. Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). ]

 THE BELOVED WOMAN

 BY KATHLEEN NORRIS

 AUTHOR OF _"Harriet and the Piper, " etc. _

 A. L. BURT COMPANY

 Publishers New York

 Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company Printed in U. S. A. 

 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY KATHLEEN NORRIS

 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

 COPYRIGHT 1920, 1921, BY THE PICTORIAL REVIEW COMPANY

 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

 TO MARY O'SULLIVAN SUTRO

 For gifts beyond all counting and esteeming, For kindness than which Heaven's self is not kinder, For the old days of tears, and smiles, and dreaming, This in acknowledgment, and in reminder. 

CHAPTER I

For forty-eight hours the snow-storm had been raging unabated over NewYork. After a wild and windy Thursday night the world had awakened to amysterious whirl of white on Friday morning, and to a dark, strange dayof steady snowing. Now, on Saturday, dirty snow was banked and heapedin great blocks everywhere, and still the clean, new flakes flutteredand twirled softly down, powdering and feathering every little ledgeand sill, blanketing areas in spotless white, capping and hooding everyunsightly hydrant and rubbish-can with exquisite and lavish beauty. Shovels had clinked on icy sidewalks all the first day, and even duringthe night the sound of shouting and scraping had not ceased for amoment, and their more and more obvious helplessness in the teeth ofthe storm awakened at last in the snow-shovellers, and in the men andwomen who gasped and stumbled along the choked thoroughfares, a sort ofheady exhilaration in the emergency, a tendency to be proud of thestorm, and of its effect upon their humdrum lives. They laughed andshouted as they battled with it, and as Nature's great barrier of snowthrew down the little barriers of convention and shyness. Men held outtheir hands to slipping and stumbling women, caught them by theirshoulders, panted to them that this was a storm, all right, this wasthe worst yet! Girls, staggering in through the revolving glass doorsof the big department stores, must stand laughing helplessly for a fewseconds in the gush of reviving warmth, while they beat their wetgloves together, regaining breath and self-possession, and straightenedoutraged millinery. 

Traffic was congested, deserted trucks and motor-cars lined the sidestreets, the subways were jammed, the surface cars helpless. Here andthere long lines of the omnibuses stood blocked in snow, and the pressfrantically heralded impending shortages of milk and coal, reiteratingpessimistically: "No relief in sight. "

But late in Saturday morning there was a sudden lull. The snow stopped, the wind fell, and the pure, cold air was motionless and sweet. The cityemerged exhausted from its temporary blanketing, and from the buriedbenches of Bowling Green to the virgin sweep of pure white beyond VanCortlandt Park, began its usual January fight with the snow. 

A handsome, rosy old lady, wrapped regally in furs, and with a maidpicking her way cautiously beside her, was one of the first to takeadvantage of the sudden change in the weather. Mrs. Melrose had beenheld captive for almost two days, first by Thursday's inclement winds, and then by the blizzard. Her motor-car was useless, and although atsixty she was an extremely youthful and vigorous woman, her daughtersand granddaughter had threatened to use force rather than let her riskthe danger of an expedition on foot, at least while the storm continued. 

But now the wind was gone, and by the time Mrs. Melrose had beenproperly shod, and coated, and hatted, there was even a dull glimmertoward the southeast that indicated the location of the long-lost sun. The old lady looked her approval at Fifth Avenue, with all its cruditiesveiled and softened by the snowfall, and as she climbed into an omnibusexpressed herself firmly to Regina. 

"You mark my words, the sun will be out before we come home!"

Regina, punching the two dimes carefully into the jolting receiver, madeonly a respectful murmur for answer. She was, like many a maid, a snobwhere her mistress was concerned, and she did not like to have Mrs. Melrose ride in public omnibuses. For Regina herself it did not matter, but Mrs. Melrose was one of the city's prominent and wealthy women, andRegina could not remember that she had ever sunk to the use of a publicconveyance before to-day. The maid was glad when they descended at astreet in the East Sixties. They would probably be sent home, shereflected, in Mrs. Liggett's car. For Regina noticed that private carswere beginning to grind and slip over the snow again. 

Old Mrs. Melrose was going to see her daughter Alice, who was Mrs. Christopher Liggett, because Alice was an invalid. It had been only afew years after Alice's most felicitous marriage, a dozen years ago, when an accident had laid the lovely and brilliant woman upon the bed ofhelplessness that she might never leave again. There was no real reasonwhy the spine should continue useless, the great specialists said, therewas a hope--even a probability--that as Alice grew rested and strong, after the serious accident, she might find herself walking again. ButAlice had been a prisoner for ten years now, and the mother and sisterwho idolized her feared that she would never again be the old dancingAlice and feared that she knew it. What Christopher Liggett feared theydid not know. He insisted that Alice's illness was but temporary, andwas tireless in his energetic pursuit of treatment for his wife. Everything must be hoped, and everything must be tried, and Alice'smother knew that one of the real crosses of her daughter's life wassorrowful pity for Chris's optimistic delusions. 

The young Liggetts had sold the old house of Christopher's father, animmense brownstone mansion a few squares away, and lived in a modern, flat-faced gray-stone house that rose five stories from the beautifullyarranged basement entrance. There were stone benches at the entrance, and a great iron grill, and two potted trees, and the small squarewindows were leaded, and showed blossoming plants inside. The three longwindows above gave upon a little-used formal drawing-room, with a Gothicfireplace of white stone at one end, and a dim jumble of rich coloursand polished surfaces between that and the big piano at the other. Theroom at the back, on this floor, was an equally large and formaldining-room, gleaming with carved mahogany and fretted plate, used onlyon the rare occasions of a dinner-party. 

But on the floor above the gracious mistress of the house had herdomain, and here there was enough beauty and colour to make the wholehouse live. The front room, cool all summer because it faced north, andwarm all winter, because of the great open fireplace that augmented thefurnace heat, was Alice's sitting-room; comfortable, beautiful, andexquisitely ordered. None of the usual clutter of the invalid was there. The fireplace was of plain creamy tiling, the rugs dull-toned upon adark, polished floor. There were only two canvases on the dove-graywalls, and the six or seven photographs that were arranged together onthe top of one of the low, plain, built-in bookcases, were framed alike. There were no meaningless vases, no jars or trays or plaques orornaments in Alice's room. Her flowers she liked to see in shining glassbowls; her flat-topped desk was severely bare. 

But the cretonne that dressed her big comfortable chairs and her couchwas bright with roses and parrots and hollyhocks, and the same cretonne, with plain net undercurtaining, hung at her four front windows. The roomwas big enough to accommodate besides, even with an air of space andsimplicity, the little grand piano that Christopher played for heralmost every night. A great Persian tortoise-shell cat was at home here, and sometimes Alice had her magnificent parrot besides, hanging himselfupside down on his gaily-painted stand, and veiling the beady, sharp eyewith which he watched her. The indulgent extravagance of her mother hadbound all the books that Alice loved in the same tone of stony-bluevellum, the countless cushions with which the aching back was soskillfully packed were of the same dull tone, and it pleased the personswho loved her to amuse the prisoner sometimes with a ring in which herfavourite note was repeated, or a chain of old lapis-lazuli that madeAlice's appreciative blue eyes more blue. 

Back of Alice's room was a den in which Christopher could conduct muchof his personal business, and beyond that was the luxurious bathroom, amodern miracle of enamel tiling and shining glass. Across thesun-flooded back of the house were Alice's little bedroom, nunlike inits rigid austerity, her nurse's room adjoining, and a square sun-room, giving glimpses of roofs and trim back-gardens, full of flowers, with alittle fountain and goldfish, a floor of dull pink tiling, and plants ingreat jars of Chinese enamel. Christopher had planned this delightfuladdition to Alice's domain only a few years ago, and, with thatknowledge of her secret heart that only Christopher could claim, had lether share the pleasure of designing and arranging it. It stretched outacross the west side of the spacious backyard, almost touching thebranches of the great plane tree, and when, after the painful move toher mother's house, and the necessary absence during the building of it, Alice had been brought back to this new evidence of their love andgoodness, she had buried her face against Christopher's shoulder, andtold him that she didn't think people with all the world to wander inhad ever had anything lovelier than this!

One of the paintings that Alice might look at idly, in the silence ofthe winter noon, was of a daisied meadow, stretching between walls ofheavy summer woodland to the roof of a half-buried farmhouse in thevalley below. The other picture was of the very mother who was comingtoward Alice now, in the jolting omnibus. But it was a younger mother, and a younger Alice, that had been captured by the painter's genius. Itwas a stout, imperious, magnificently gowned woman, of not much morethan thirty, in whose spreading silk lap a fair little girl was sitting. This little earnest-eyed child was Alice at seven. The splendid, dark-eyed, proud-looking boy of about fourteen, who stood beside themother, was Teddy, her only son, dead now for many years, and perhapsmercifully dead. The fourth and last person pictured was the elderdaughter, Annie, who had been about nine years old then, Aliceremembered. Annie and Alice had been unusually alike, even for sisters, but even then Annie's fair, aristocratic type of blonde prettiness hadbeen definite where Alice's was vague, and Annie's expression had beenjust a trifle haughty and discontented where Alice's was always graveand sweet. Annie had almost been a beauty, she was extremely andconspicuously good-looking even now, when as Mrs. Hendrick von Behrens, wife of a son of an old and wealthy Knickerbocker family, she wassupreme in the very holy of holies of the city's social life. 

Mrs. Melrose came unannounced upon her daughter to-day, and Alice'scolourless warm cheek flushed with happiness under her mother's fresh, cold kiss. 

"Mummy--you darling! But how did you get here? Miss Slater says that thestreets are absolutely impassable!"

"I came in the 'bus, dear, " Mrs. Melrose said, very much pleased withherself. "How warm and comfy you are in here, darling. But what did Iinterrupt?"

"You didn't interrupt anything, " Alice said, quickly. "Chris telephoned, and he's bringing Henrici--the Frenchman who wrote that play I lovedso--to tea. Isn't that fun? I'm so excited--and I think Chris was such aduck to get hold of him. I was translating it, you know, and Bowditch, who was here for dinner last night, told me he'd place it, if I finishedit. And now I can talk it over with Henrici himself--thanks to Chris!Chris met my man at the club, and told him about me, and he said hewould be charmed. So I telephoned several persons, and I tried to gethold of Annie----"

"Annie has a lunch--and a board meeting at the hospital at four, "Annie's mother remembered, "and Leslie is at a girls' luncheonsomewhere. Annie had breakfast with me, and was rushing off afterward. She's quite wonderfully faithful about those things. "

"Well, but you'll stay for lunch and tea, too, Mummy?" Alice pleaded. She was lying back in her pillows, feasting her eyes upon her mother'sface with that peculiarly tense devotion that was part of her nature. Rarely did a day pass without their meeting, and no detail touchingAnnie's life, Annie's boys or husband, was too small to interest Alice. She was especially interested, too, in Leslie, the eighteen-year-olddaughter that her brother Theodore had left to his mother's care; infact, between the mother and daughters, the one granddaughter and twolittle grandsons, and the two sons-in-law of the Melrose family, a deepbond existed, a bond of pride as well as affection. It was one of theirfavourite boasts that to the Melroses the unity and honour of the familywas the first consideration in the world. 

But to-day Mrs. Melrose could not stay. At one o'clock she left Alice tobe put into her prettiest robe by the devoted Miss Slater, saw withsatisfaction that preparations for tea were noiselessly under way, called Regina, odorous of tea and mutton chops, from the pantry, andwent out into the quiet cold of the winter noon. 

The old Melrose house was a substantial, roomy, brownstone building inMadison Avenue, inconspicuous perhaps among several notoriously handsomehomes, but irreproachably dignified none the less. A few blocks below itthe commercial current of East Thirty-fourth Street ebbed and flowed; afew blocks north the great façade of the Grand Central Station shut offthe street completely. Third Avenue, behind it, swarmed and rattledalarmingly close, and Broadway flared its impudent signs only fiveminutes' walk in the other direction, but here, in a little oasis ofquiet street, two score of old families serenely held their placeagainst the rising tide, and among them the Melroses confidently feltthemselves valued and significant. 

Mrs. Melrose mounted her steps with the householder's secretcomplacency. They were scrupulously brushed of the last trace of snow, and the heavy door at the top swung noiselessly open to admit her. Shesuddenly realized that she was very tired, that her fur coat was heavy, and her back ached. She swept straight to the dark old curving stairway, and mounted slowly. 

"Joseph, " she said over her shoulder, "send luncheon upstairs, please. And when Miss Leslie comes in, tell her I should like to see her, if itisn't too late. Anybody coming to-night?"

"Mr. Von Behrens telephoned that he and Mr. Liggett might come in for amoment, on his way to the banquet at the Waldorf, Madam. But that wasall. "

"I may have dinner upstairs, too, if Leslie is going anywhere, " Mrs. Melrose said to herself, mounting slowly. And it seemed to her fatiguevery restful to find her big room warm and orderly, her coal fireburning behind the old-fashioned steel rods, all the homely, comfortable treasures of her busy years awaiting her. She sank into achair, and Regina flew noiselessly about with slippers and a loose silkrobe. Presently a maid was serving smoking-hot bouillon, and Mrs. Melrose felt herself relaxed and soothed; it was good to be home. 

Yet there was trace of uneasiness, of something almost likeapprehension, in the look that wandered thoughtfully about theovercrowded room. Presently she reached a plump, well-groomed handtoward the bell. But when Regina came to stand expectantly near her, Mrs. Melrose roused herself from a profound abstraction to assure herthat she had not rung--it must have been a mistake. 

"Miss Leslie hasn't come in?"

"Not yet, Madam, Miss Melrose is at Miss Higgins's luncheon. "

"Yes; but it was an early luncheon, " the grandmother said, discontentedly. "She was playing squash, or tennis, or something!Regina----"

"Yes, Madam?"

But Mrs. Melrose was musing again. 

"Regina, I am expecting a caller at four o'clock, a Mrs. Sheridan. Please see that she is shown up at once. I want to see her here. Andplease----"

A pause. Regina waited. 

"That's all!" her mistress announced, suddenly. 

Alone again, the old lady stirred her tea, ruminated for a few momentswith narrowed eyes fixed on space, recalled herself to her surroundings, and finished her cup. 

Her room was large, filled with chairs and tables, lamps and cushions, silver trays and lacquer boxes, vases and jars and bowls, gift booksand current magazines. There was not an unbroken inch of surfaceanywhere, the walls were closely set with pictures of all sorts. Alongthe old-fashioned mantel, a scalloped, narrow shelf of marble, was acrowding line of photographs in silver frames, and there were otherframed photographs all about the room. There were the young mothers ofthe late eighties, seated to best display their bustles and their Frenchtwists, with heavy-headed infants in their tightly cased arms, and therewere children's pictures, babes in shells, in swings, or leaning ongates. There were three Annies: one in ringlets, plaid silk, andtasselled boots, at eight; one magnificent in drawing-room plumes; and arecent one, a cloudy study of the severely superb mother, with asleek-headed, wide-collared boy on each side of her. There was aphotograph of the son Theodore, handsome, sullen, dressed in the fashionof the opening century, and there was more than one of Theodore'sdaughter, the last of the Melroses. Leslie had been a wide-eyed, sturdylittle girl who carried a perpetually surprised, even a babyishexpression into her teens, but her last pictures showed the débutante, the piquant and charming eighteen-year-old, whose knowingly tipped hatand high fur collar left only a glimpse of pretty and pouting facebetween. 

Leslie came in upon her grandmother at about three o'clock. She wasgenuinely tired, after an athletic morning at the club, a luncheon amida group of chattering intimates, and a walk with the young man whoseattentions to her were thrilling not only her grandmother and aunts, butthe cool-blooded little Leslie herself. Acton Liggett was Christopher'sonly brother, only relative indeed, and promised already to be as greata favourite as the irresistible Chris himself. Both were rich, bothfine-looking, straightforward, honourable men, proud of their ownintegrity, their long-established family, and their old firm. Acton waspleasantly at home in the Melrose, Liggett, and Von Behrens houses, thevery maids loved him, and his quiet singling out of Leslie for hisdevotion had satisfied everyone's sense of what was fitting anddelightful. Pretty Leslie, back from a summer's idling with Aunt Annieand the little boys, in California and Hawaii, had found Acton'sadmiration waiting for her, with all the other joys of her débutantewinter. 

And even the critical Aunt Annie had to admit that the little minx wasmanaging the whole matter with consummate skill. Leslie was not in theleast self-conscious with Acton; she turned to him with all the artlessconfidence of a little sister. She asked him about her dancing partners, and about her gowns, and she discussed with him all the various bits ofsmall gossip that concerned their own friends. 

"Should I have said that, Acton?" she would ask, trustfully. "Shall I beMarion's bridesmaid? Would you?--after I refused Linda Fox, you know. Idon't like to dance with Louis Davis, after what you told me; what shallI do when he comes up to me?"

Acton was twenty-five, seven years her senior. He advised her earnestly, over many a confidential cup of tea. And just lately, the grandmothernoticed exultantly, hardly a day passed that did not find the youngcouple together. 

"How did Acton happen to meet you, lovey?" she asked to-day, _apropos_of the walk. 

"Why, he telephoned Vesta Higgins's, and asked me how I was going to gethome. I said, walk. There was no use trying motor-cars, anyway, for theywere slipping and bumping terribly! He said he was in the neighbourhood, and he came up. Granny----"

She paused, and her grandmother was conscious of a quickened heart-beat. The thoughtful almost tremulous tone was not like giddy little Leslie. 

"Granny, " the girl repeated, presently, "how old was my mother when shegot married?"

"About twenty-two, " the old woman said. 

"And how old was Aunt Annie when she did?"

"Annie's about thirty-seven, " her mother considered. "She was abouttwenty-five. But why, dear?"

"Nothing, " said Leslie, and fell silent. 

She was still in the silk blouse and short homespun skirt that she hadworn at the athletic club luncheon, but she had thrown aside her loosewoolly coat, and the narrow furs that were no softer than her own fairskin. Flung back into a deep chair, and relaxed after her vigorous day, she looked peculiarly childish and charming, her grandmother thought. She was like both her aunts, with Annie's fair, almost ashen hair andAlice's full, pretty mouth. But she was more squarely built than either, and a hint of a tip, at the end of her nose, gave her an expression atonce infantile and astonished. When Leslie opened her blue eyes widely, and stared at anything, she looked like an amazed baby, and the effectof her round eyes and tilted nose was augmented by her very fair skin, and by just a sixteenth of an inch shortness in her upper lip. Of courseshe knew all this. Her acquaintance with her own good and bad points hadbegun in school days, and while through her grandmother's care herteeth were being straightened, and her eyes and throat subjected to mildforms of surgery, her Aunt Annie had seen to it that her masses of fairhair had been burnished and groomed, her hands scraped and polished intobeauty, and finally that her weight was watched with scrupulous care. Nature had perhaps intended Leslie to be plump and ruddy, but modernfashion had decreed otherwise, and, with half the girls of her own ageand set, Leslie took saccharine in her tea, rarely touched sweets orfried food, and had the supreme satisfaction of knowing that she wasactually too slim and too willowy for her height, and interestinglycolourless into the bargain. 

Could Acton possibly have said anything definite to start this unusualtrain of thought, the grandmother speculated. With Leslie sofelicitously married, she would have felt ready for her _nunc dimittis_. She watched Leslie expectantly. But the girl was apparently dreaming, and was staring absently at the tip of one sturdy oxford above which astretch of thick white woollen stocking was visible almost to her knee. 

"How can they fall in love with them, dressed like Welsh peasants!" thegrandmother said to herself, in mild disapproval. And aloud she said:"Ah, don't, lovey!"

For Leslie had taken out a small gold case, and was regarding itthoughtfully. 

"My first to-day, on my honour!" Leslie said, as she lazily lighted asweet-scented cigarette. It never occurred to her to pay any attentionto her grandmother's protest, for Grandmother had been regularlyprotesting against everything Leslie had done since her adored anddespotic childhood. She had fainted when Leslie had dived off the dockat Newport, and had wept when Leslie had galloped through the big irongates on her own roan stallion; she had called in Christopher, asLeslie's guardian, when Leslie, at fifteen, had calmly climbed into oneof the big cars, and driven it seven miles, alone and unadvised, andtotally without instruction or experience. Leslie knew that thishalf-scandalized and wholly-admiring opposition was one of hergrandmother's secret satisfactions, and she combatted it onlymechanically. 

"Have one, Grandma?"

"Have one--you wild girl you! I'd like to know what a nice young manthinks when a refined girl offers him----"

"All the nice young men are smoking themselves, like chimneys!"

"Ah, but that's a very different thing. No, my dear, no man, whether hesmokes himself or not, likes to have a sweet, womanly girl descend----"

"Darling, didn't you ever do anything that my revered great-grandmotherMurison disapproved of?" Leslie teased, dropping on her knees before hergrandmother, and resting her arms on her lap. 

"Smoke----! My mother would have fainted, " said Mrs. Melrose. "And don'tblow that nasty-smelling stuff in my face!"

But she could not resist the pleasure that the lovely young face, sonear her own, gave her, and she patted it with her soft, wrinkled hand. Suddenly Leslie jumped up eagerly, listening to the sound of voices inthe hall. 

"There's Aunt Annie--oh, goody! I wanted to ask her----"

But it was Regina who opened the door, showing in two callers. The firstwas a splendid-looking woman of perhaps forty-five, with a rosy, cheerful face, and wide, shrewd gray eyes shining under a somewhatshabby mourning veil. With her was a pretty girl of eighteen, or perhapsa little more. 

Leslie glanced astonished at her grandmother. It was extremely unusualto have callers shown in in this unceremonious fashion, even if she hadbeen rather unprepossessed by these particular callers. The youngerwoman's clothing, indeed, if plain, was smart and simple; her severetailor-made had a collar of beaver fur to relieve its dark blue, and herlittle hat of blue beaver felt was trimmed only by a band of the samefur. She had attractive dark-blue eyes and a flashing smile. 

But her companion's comfortable dowdiness, her black cotton gloves, hersquarely built figure, and worn shoes, all awakened a certain contemptin the granddaughter of the house, and caused Leslie shrewdly to surmisethat these humble strangers were pensioners of her grandmother, theolder one probably an old servant. 

"Kate Sheridan!" Old Mrs. Melrose had gotten to her feet, and had puther arm about the visitor. "Well, my dear, my dear, I've not seen youthese----What is it? Don't tell me how many years it is! And whichdaughter is this?"

"This is my niece, Norma, " the older woman said, in a delightful richvoice that was full of easy confidence and friendliness. "This is Mrs. Melrose, Norma, darling, that was such a good friend to me and mineyears ago!"

"No warmer friend than you were to me, Kate, " the old lady said, quickly, still keeping an arm about the sturdy figure. "This is mygranddaughter, Theodore's little girl, " Mrs. Melrose added, catchingLeslie with her free hand. 

Leslie was not more of a snob than is natural to a girl of her age andupbringing, but she could not but give Mrs. Sheridan a pretty coolglance. Grandmother's old friends were all very well----

But Mrs. Sheridan was studying her with affectionate freedom. 

"And isn't she Miss Alice's image! But she's like you all--she's likeMr. Theodore, too, especially through the eyes!"

And she turned back to her hostess, interested, animated, and asoblivious to Leslie's hostile look as if the girl were her own pictureon the wall. 

"And you and my Norma must know each other, " she said, presently, watching the girls as they shook hands, with a world of love andsolicitude in her eyes. 

"Sit down, both you two, " Mrs. Melrose said. Leslie glanced at thestrapped watch at her wrist. 

"Grandmother, I really----" she began. 

"No, you don't really!" her grandmother smiled. "Talk to Miss Sheridanwhile I talk"--she turned smiling to her old friend--"to Kate! Tell me, how are you all, Kate? And where are you all--you were in Detroit?"

"We've been in New York more than two years now, and why I haven't beento see you before, perhaps _you_ can tell me, for _I_ can't!" KateSheridan said. "But my boy is a great big fellow now; Wolf'stwenty-four, and Rose is twenty-one, and this one, " she nodded towardNorma, who was exchanging comments on the great storm with Leslie, "thisone is nearly nineteen! And you see they're all working: Wolf's doingwonderfully with a firm of machine manufacturers, in Newark, and Rosehas been with one real estate firm since we came. And Norma here worksin a bookstore, up the Avenue a bit, Biretta's. "

"Why, I go in there nearly every week!" the old lady said. 

"She told me the other night that she had been selling some books to Mr. Christopher Liggett, and that's Miss Alice's husband, I hear, " said Mrs. Sheridan. "She's in what they call the Old Book Room, " she added, lowering her voice. "She's wonderful about books, reads them, and knowsthem as if they were children--they think the world of her in there! AndI keep house for the three of them, and what with this and that--I neverhave any time!"

"But you have someone to help you, Kate?" the old lady asked, with heramused and affectionate eyes on the other's wholesome face. 

"Why would I?" demanded Mrs. Sheridan, roundly. "The girls are a greathelp----"

"She always assumes a terrific brogue the minute you ask her why wedon't have someone in to help her, " Norma contributed, with a sort ofshy and loving audacity. "She'll tell you in a minute that faith, sheand her sister used to run barefoot over the primroses, and theyblooming beyond anything the Lord ever created, and the spring onthem----"

Leslie Melrose laughed out suddenly, in delighted appreciation, and thetension between the two girls was over. They had not quite known how totalk to each other; Norma naturally assuming that Leslie looked downupon a seller of books, and anxious to show her that she was unconsciousof either envy or inferiority, and Leslie at a loss because her usualsocial chatter was as foreign here as a strange tongue would be. But notype is quicker to grasp upon amusement, and to appreciate the amuser, than Leslie's, unable to amuse itself, and skilled in seeking forentertainment. She was too shy to ask Norma to imitate her aunt again, but her stiffness relaxed, and she asked Norma if it was not great "fun"to sell things--especially at Christmas, for instance. Norma asked inturn if Mr. Liggett was not Leslie's uncle, and said that she had soldhim hundreds of beautiful books for his wife, and had even had a notefrom Leslie's Aunt Alice, thanking her for some little courtesy. 

"But isn't that funny!" Leslie said, with her childish widening of theeyes. "That you should know Chris!"

"Well, now, " said Mrs. Sheridan's voice, cutting across bothconversations, "where can these girls go for about fifteen minutes? I'lltell you my little bit of business, Mrs. Melrose, and then Norma and Iwill go along. It won't take me fifteen minutes, for there's nothing todecide to-day, " the girls heard her add, comfortably, as they went intothe hall. 

"Leslie!" her grandmother called after her. "If you must change, dear--but wait a minute, is that Aunt Annie out there?"

"No, Grandma, just ourselves. What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say, lovey, that you could ask Miss Sheridan to wait inthe library; her aunt tells me she is fond of books. " Mrs. Melrose didnot quite like to commit Leslie to entertaining the strange girl forperhaps half an hour. She was pleasantly reassured by Leslie's answeringvoice:

"We'll have tea in my room, Grandma. Marion and Doris may come in!"

"That's right, have a good time!" her grandmother answered. And thensettling back comfortably, she added with her kind, fussy superiority, "Well, Kate, I've wondered where you were hiding yourself all this time!Let's have the business. But first I want to say that I appreciate yourturning to me. If it's money--I've got it. If it's something else, ChrisLiggett is one of the cleverest men in New York, and we'll consult him. "

"It's not money, thank God!" Mrs. Sheridan said, in her forthrightvoice. "Lord knows where it all comes from, these days, but the childrenalways have plenty, " she added, glad of a diversion. "They boughtthemselves a car two years ago, and if it isn't a Victrola this week, it's a thermos bottle, or a pair of white buckskin shoes! Rose told meshe paid eight dollars for her corsets. 'Eight dollars for what, ' Isaid, 'a dozen?' But then I've the two houses in Brooklyn, you know----"

"You still have those?"

"I have, indeed. And even the baby--we call Norma the baby--is earninggood money now. "

"She has your name, Kate--Sheridan. Had your husband a brother?"

Kate Sheridan's face grew a trifle pale. She glanced at the door to seethat it was shut, and at the one to the adjoining room to make surethat it was closed also. Then she turned to Mrs. Melrose, and it was ananxious glance she directed at the older woman. 

"Well, now, there's no hurry about this, " she began, "and you may saythat it's all nonsense, and send me packing--and God knows I hope youwill! But it just began to get on my mind--and I've never been a greatone to worry! I'll begin at the beginning----"

CHAPTER II

Marion Duer and Doris Alexander duly arrived for tea with Leslie, andNorma was introduced. They all sat in Leslie's room, and laughed as theyreached for crumpets, and marvelled at the storm. Norma found themrather younger than their years, and shyly anxious to be gracious. Onher part she realized with some surprise that they were not reallyunapproachable, and that Leslie was genuinely anxious to take her to teawith Aunt Alice some day, and have them "talk books and things. " Thebarriers between such girls as this one and herself, Norma was honestenough to admit, were largely of her own imagining. They were neither socontemptibly helpless nor so scornfully clever as she had fancied them;they were just laughing girls, absorbed in thoughts of gowns andadmirers and good times, like her cousin Rose and herself. 

There had been perhaps one chance in one hundred that she and LeslieMelrose might at once become friends, but by fortunate accident thatchance had favoured them. Leslie's spontaneous laugh in Mrs. Melrose'sroom, her casual mention of tea, her appreciative little phrases as sheintroduced to Marion and Doris the young lady who picked out books forAunt Alice, had all helped to crush out the vaguely hostile impulseNorma Sheridan had toward rich little members of a society she only knewby hearsay. Norma had found herself sitting on Leslie's big velvetcouch laughing and chatting quite naturally, and where Norma chattednaturally the day was won. She could be all friendliness, and allsparkle and fun, and presently Leslie was listening to her in actualfascination. 

The butler announced a motor-car, a maid came up; Doris and Marion hadto go. Leslie and Norma went into Leslie's dressing-room, and Leslie'smaid went obsequiously to and fro, and the girls talked almostintimately as they washed their hands and brushed their hair. Neithercared that the time was passing. 

But the time was passing none the less. Five o'clock came with a paleand uncertain sunset, and a cold twilight began to settle over the snowycity. Leslie and Norma came back to the fire, and were standing there, atrifle uncertainly, but still talking hard and fast, when there was aninterruption. 

They looked at each other, paling. What was that?

There was utter silence in the old house. Leslie, with a frightened lookat Norma, ran to the hall door. As she opened it Mrs. Sheridan openedthe door of her grandmother's room opposite, and called, quite loudly:

"It's nothing, dear! Get hold of your grandmother's maid--somebody! Shefeels a little--but she's quite all right!"

Leslie and Norma ran across the hall, and into Mrs. Melrose's room. Bythis time Regina had come flying in, and two of the younger maids, andJoseph had run upstairs. Leslie had only one glimpse of her grandmother, leaning against Regina's arm, and drinking from a glass of water thatshook in the maid's hands. Then Mrs. Sheridan guided both herself andNorma firmly into the hall, and reassured them cheerfully:

"The room was very hot, dear, and your grandmother said that she hadgotten tired, walking in the wind. She's quite all right--you can go inimmediately. No; she didn't faint--she just had a moment of dizziness, and called out. "

Regina came out, too evidently convinced that she had to deal with amurderess, and coldly asked that Mrs. Sheridan would please step backfor a minute. Mrs. Sheridan immediately complied, but it was hardly morethan a minute when she joined the girls again. 

"She wants to see you, dear, " she said to Leslie, whose first frightenedtears had dried from bewilderment and curiosity, "and we must hurry on. Come, Norma, we'll say good-night!"

"Good-night, Miss Melrose, " Norma said. 

"Good-night, " Leslie answered, hesitating over the name. Her widebabyish smile, the more appealing because of her wet lashes, made asudden impression upon Norma's heart. Leslie hung childishly on theupstairs balustrade, in the dim wide upper hall, and watched them go. "I--I almost called you Norma!" she confessed, mischievously. 

"I wish you had!" Norma called up from below. She was in great spiritsas they went out into the deepening cold blue of the street, and almostpersuaded her aunt to take the omnibus up the Avenue. But Mrs. Sheridanprotested rather absent-mindedly against this extravagance. They wereclose to the subway and that was quicker. 

Norma could not talk in the packed and swaying train, and when theyemerged at Sixty-fifth Street they had only one slippery, cold, darkblock to walk. But when they had reached the flat, and snapped onlights everywhere, and cast off outer garments, aproned and busy, in thekitchen, she burst out:

"What on earth was the matter with that old lady, Aunt Kate?"

"Oh, I suppose they all eat too much, and sleep too much, and pamperthemselves as if they were babies, " her aunt returned, composedly, "andso it doesn't take much to upset 'em!"

"Oh, come now!" the girl said, stopping with arrested knife. "Thatwasn't what made her let out a yell like that!"

Mrs. Sheridan, kneeling at the oven of the gas stove, laughed uneasily. 

"Oh, you could hear that, could you?"

"Hear it! They heard it in Yonkers. "

"Well, " Mrs. Sheridan said, "she has always been high-strung, that one. I remember years ago she'd be going into crying and raving fits. She'sgot very deep affections, Mrs. Melrose, and when she gets thinking ofTheodore, and of Alice's accident, and this and that, she'll go rightoff the handle. She had been crying, poor soul, and suddenly she beganthis moaning and rocking. I told her I'd call someone if she didn'tstop, for she'd go from bad to worse, with me. "

"But why with you, Aunt Kate? Do you know her so well?"

"Do I know them?" Mrs. Sheridan dug an opener into a can of corn with avigorous hand. "I know them all!"

"But how was that?" Norma persisted, now dropping her peeled potatoesinto dancing hot water. 

"I've told you five thousand times, but you and Rose would likely haveone of your giggling fits on, and not a word would you remember!" heraunt said. "I've told you that years ago, when your Uncle Tom died, andI was left with two babies, and not much money, a friend of mine, amilliner she was, told me that she knew a lady that wanted someone tohelp manage her affairs--household affairs. Well, I'd often helped yourUncle Tom with his books, and my mother was with me, to look out for thechildren----"

"Where was I, Aunt Kate?"

"You! Wolf wasn't but three, and Rose a year old--where would you be?"

"I was minus two years, " Norma said, sententiously. "I was part of thecosmic all----"

"You be very careful how you talk about such things until you're amarried woman!" her aunt said. "Salt those potatoes, darling. Norma, canyou remember what I did with the corn that Rose liked so?"

Norma was attentive. 

"You beat it up with eggs, and it came out a sort of puff, " sherecalled. "I know--you put a little cornstarch in, to give it body!Listen, Aunt Kate, how long did you stay with Mrs. Melrose?"

"Well, first I just watched her help for her, and paid the bills, andwent to market. And then I got gradually managing more and more; I'd goto pay her interest, or deposit money, or talk to tenants; I liked itand she liked me. And then she talked me into going to France with her, but I cried all the way for my children, and I was glad enough to comehome again! She and Miss Annie spent some time over there, but I cameback. Miss Alice was in school, and Theodore--dear knows where hewas--into some mischief somewhere! But I'd saved money, and she'd givenme the Brooklyn houses, and I took a boarder or two, and that was thelast I ever worked for any one but my own!"

"Well, that's a nice girl, that Leslie, " Norma said, "if her father_was_ wild!"

"Her mother was a good girl, " Kate said, "I knew her. But the old ladywas proud, Baby--God save any one of us from pride like that! You'dnever know it, to see her now, but she was very proud. Theodore's wifewas a good girl, but she was Miss Annie's maid, and what Mrs. Melrosenever could forgive was that when she ordered the girl out of the house, she showed her her wedding certificate. She was Mrs. Theodore Melrose, fast enough--though his mother never would see her or acknowledge her inany way. "

"They must think the Lord has made a special arrangement forthem--people like that!" Norma commented, turning a lovely flushed facefrom the pan where she was dexterously crisping bacon. "What business isit of hers if her son marries a working girl? That gives me a feelingakin to pain--just because she happens to have a lot of money! What doesMiss Leslie Melrose think of that?"

"I don't know what she thinks--she loves her grandmother, I suppose. Mrs. Melrose took her in when she was only a tiny girl, and she's beenthe apple of her eye ever since. Theodore and his wife were divorced, and when Leslie was about four or five he came back to his mother todie--poor fellow! It was a terrible sorrow to the old lady--she'd hadher share, one way and another! My goodness, Norma, " Mrs. Sheridaninterrupted herself to say, in half-reproachful appreciation, "I wishyou'd always help me like this, my dear! You can be as useful as tengirls, when you've a mind to! And then perhaps to-morrow you'll be ascontrary----!"

"Oh, Aunt Kate, aren't you ashamed! When I ironed all your dish-towelslast night, when you were setting bread, and I made the popoversSunday!" Norma kissed her aunt, brushed a dab of cornstarch from theolder woman's firm cheek, and performed a sort of erratic dance aboutthe protestant and solid figure. "I'm a poor working girl, " she said, "and I get dragged out with my long, hard day!"

"Well, God knows that's true, too, " her aunt said, with a sudden look ofcompunction; "you may make a joke of it, but it's no life for a girl. Mydear, " she added, seriously, holding Norma with a firm arm, and lookinginto her eyes, "I hope I did no harm by what I did to-day! I did it forthe best, whatever comes of it. "

"You mean stirring up the whole thing?" Norma asked, frowning a littlein curiosity and bewilderment. "Going to see her?"

"That--yes. " Mrs. Sheridan rubbed her forehead with her hand, a fashionshe had when puzzled or troubled, and suddenly resumed, with a greatrattling of pans and hissing of water, her operations at the sink. "Well, nothing may come of it--we'll see!" she added, briskly. Norma, who was watching her expectantly, sighed disappointedly; the subject wastoo evidently closed. But a second later she was happily distracted bythe slamming of the front door; Wolf and Rose Sheridan had come intogether, and dinner was immediately served. 

Norma recounted, with her own spirited embellishments, her adventures ofthe afternoon as the meal progressed. She had had "fun" getting to theoffice in the first place, a man had helped her, and they had bothskidded into another man, and bing!--they had all gone down on the icetogether. And then at the shop nobody had come in, and the lights hadbeen lighted, and the clerks had all gathered together and talked. ThenAunt Kate had come in to have lunch, and to have Norma go with her tothe gas company's office about the disputed charge, and they had decidedto make, at last, that long-planned call on the Melroses. There followeda description of the big house and the spoiled, pretty girl, and theimpressive yet friendly old lady. 

"And Aunt Kate--I'm sorry to say!--talked her into a nervous convulsion. You did, Aunt Kate--the poor old lady gave one piercing yell----"

"You awful girl, there'll be a judgment on you for your impudence!" heraunt said, fondly. But Rose looked solicitously at her mother, and said:

"Mother looks as if she had had a nervous convulsion, too. You lookterribly tired, Mother!"

"Well, I had a little business to discuss with Mrs. Melrose, " Mrs. Sheridan said, "and I'm no hand for business!"

"You know it!" Wolf Sheridan concurred, with his ready laugh. "Whydidn't you send me?"

"It was her business, lovey, " his mother said, mildly, over her secondheartening cup of strong black tea. 

The Sheridan apartment was, in exterior at least, exactly like onehundred thousand others that line the side streets of New York. It facedthe familiar grimy street, fringed on the great arteries each side bycigarette stands and saloons, and it was entered by the usual flight ofstained and shabby steps, its doorway showing a set of some dozenletter-boxes, and looking down upon a basement entrance frequentlyembellished with ash-cans and milk-bottles, and, just at present, withbanks of soiled and sooty snow. The Sheridans climbed three long flightsinside, to their own rooms, but as this gained them a glimpse of river, and a sense in summer of airiness and height, to say nothing of pleasantnearness to the roof, they rarely complained of the stairs--in fact, rarely thought of them at all. 

With the opening of their own door, however, all likeness to theirneighbours ceased. Even in a class where home ties and home comforts arefar more common than is generally suspected, Kate Sheridan wasexceptional, and her young persons fortunate among their kind. Hertraining had been, she used to tell them, "old country" training, but itwas not only in fresh linen and hot, good food that their advantage lay. It was in the great heart that held family love a divine gift, that hadstood between them and life's cold realities for some twenty courageousyears. Kate idolized her own two children and her foster-child with apassion that is the purest and the strongest in the world. In possessingthem, she thought herself the most blessed of women. To keep a roof overtheir heads, to watch them progress triumphantly through long divisionand measles and skates, to see milk glasses emptied and plates scraped, to realize that Wolf was as strong morally as he was physically, andthat all her teachers called Rose an angel, to spoil and adore thebeautiful, mischievous, and amusing "Baby"; this made a life full to thebrim, for Kate, of pride and happiness. Kate had never had a servant, or a fur coat; for long intervals she had not had a night's unbrokenrest; and there had been times, when Wolf's fractured arm necessitated adoctor's bill, or when coal for the little Detroit house had made adisproportionate hole in her bank account, in which even the thriftyKate had known biting financial worry. 

But the children never knew it. They knew only her law of service andlove. They must love each other, whatever happened. There was noquarrelling at meals at Kate's house. Rose must of course oblige herbrother, sew on the button, or take his book to the library; Wolf mustalways protect the girls, and consider them. Wolf firmly believed hissister and cousin to be the sweetest girls in the world; Rose and Normaregarded Wolf as perfection in human form. They rarely met withoutembraces, never without brightening eyes and light hearts. 

That this attitude toward each other was only the result of the healthybodies and honest souls that Kate had given them they would hardly havebelieved. That her resolute training had literally forced them to loveand depend upon themselves in a world where brothers and sisters ashabitually teased and annoyed each other, would have struck them asfantastic. Perhaps Kate herself hardly knew the power of her own willupon them. Her commands in their babyhood had not been couched in thelanguage of modern child-analysts, nor had she given, or been able togive, any particular reason for her law. But the instinct by which shedrew Wolf's attention to his sister's goodness, or noted Wolf'scleverness for Rose's benefit, was better than any reason. She summedthe situation up simply for the few friends she had, with the phrase:

"They're all crazy about each other, every one of them!"

Kate's parlour would have caused Annie von Behrens actual faintness. Butit was a delightful place to Rose and Wolf and their friends. Thecushioned divan on Sunday nights customarily held a row of them, theupright ebony piano sifted popular music impartially upon the taboret, the patent rocker, and the Rover rug. They laughed, gossiped, munchedcandy, and experimented in love-making quite as happily as did Leslieand her own intimates. They streamed out into the streets, and saunteredalong under the lights to the moving pictures, or on hot summer nightsthey perched like tiers of birds on the steps, and the world and youthseemed sweet to them. In Kate's dining-room, finished in black wood andred paper, they made Welsh rarebits and fudge, and in Kate's spotlesskitchen odours of toast and coffee rose at unseemly hours. 

Lately, Rose and Norma had been talking of changes. Rose was employed inan office whose severe and beautiful interior decoration had costthousands of dollars, and Norma's Old Book Room was a study in dullcarved woods, Oriental rugs, dull bronzes, and flawless glass. The girlsbegan to feel that a plain cartridge paper and net curtains might wellreplace the parlour's florid green scrolling and Nottingham lace. Butthey did not worry about it; it served as a topic to amuse their leisurehours. The subject was generally routed by a shrewd allusion, from Normaor Wolf, to the sort of parlour people would like if they got married, married to someone who was doing very well in the shoe business, forexample. 

These allusions deepened the colour in Rose's happy face; she had been"going" for some three months with an attractive young man who exactlymet these specifications--not her first admirer, not noticeable for anyespecial quality, yet Rose and Norma, and Kate, too, felt in their soulsthat Rose's hour had come. Young Harry Redding was a big, broad, ratherinarticulate fellow, whose humble calling was not the more attractive tothe average young woman because he supported his mother by it. But hesuited Rose, more, he seemed wonderful to Rose, and because her dreamshad always been humble and self-sacrificing, Harry was a thousand timesmore than she had dreamed. She felt herself the luckiest girl in theworld. 

Kate sat at the head of her table, and Wolf at the foot. Rose, a gentle, quiet copy of her handsome mother, was nearest the kitchen door, towhich she made constant flying trips. Norma was opposite Rose, and byfalling back heavily could tip her entire chair against the sideboard, from which she extracted forks or salt or candy, as the case might be. The telephone was in the dining-room, Wolf's especial responsibility, and Mrs. Sheridan herself occasionally left the table for calls to thefront door or the dumb-waiter. 

To-night, after supper, the girls flew through their share ofclearing-up. It never weighed very heavily upon them; they usually beganthe process of piling and scraping dishes before they left the table, Rose whisking the tablecloth into its drawer as Norma bumped through theswinging door with the last dishes, and Kate halfway through the washingeven then. Chattering and busy, they hustled the hot plates onto theirshelves, rattled the hot plated ware into its basket, clanked saucepans, and splashed water. Not fifteen minutes after the serving of the dessertthe last signs of the meal had been obliterated, and Kate was guilty ofwhat the girls called "making excuses" to linger in the kitchen. She wasmixing cereal, storing cold potatoes and cut bread, soaking dish-towels. But these things did not belong to the duties of Norma and Rose, and theyounger girl could flash with a free conscience to the little room sheshared with Rose. Wolf had called out for a companion, they were goingto take a walk and see what the blizzard had done!

Norma washed her face, the velvety skin emerging with its bloomuntouched, the lips crimson, the blue eyes blazing. She pressed a greatwave of silky dark hair across her white forehead, and put thefur-trimmed hat at a dashing angle. The lace blouse, the pearl beads, her fur-collared coat again, and Norma was ready to dance out besideWolf as if fatigue and labours did not exist. 

"Where's Rose?" he said, as they went downstairs. 

"Oh, Wolf--Saturday night! Harry's coming, of course!" Norma slipped herlittle hand, in its shabby glove, through his big arm. "She and AuntKate were gossiping!"

"Suits me!" Wolf said, contentedly. He held her firmly on the slipperylumps of packed snow. The sidewalks were almost impassable, yet hundredsof other happy persons were stumbling and scrambling over them in themild winter darkness. Stars were out; and whether Norma was blinking upat them, or staring into lighted windows of candy stores and fruitmarkets, her own eyes danced and twinkled. The elevated trains thunderedabove their heads, and the subway roared under their feet; greatadvertising signs, with thousands of coloured lights, fanned up and downin a haze of pink and blue; the air was full of voices, laughing andshouting, and the screaming of coasting children. 

"I have my pearls on, " Norma told her companion. They stopped for somemolasses peppermints, and their pungent odour mingled for Norma in theimpression of this happy hour. "Wolf, how do they do that?" the girlasked, watching an electric sign on which a maid mopped a dirty floorwith some prepared cleaner, leaving the floor clean after her mop. Wolf, interested, explained, and Norma listened. They stopped at a drug store, and studied a picture that subtly altered from Roosevelt's face toLincoln's, and thence to Wilson's face, and Wolf explained that, too. Norma knew that he understood everything of that nature, but she likedto impress him, too, and did so far more often than she realized, withher book-lore. When Norma spoke lightly of a full calf edition de luxeof the Sonnets from the Portuguese, she might almost have been speakingin that language for all she conveyed to Wolf, but he watched theanimated face proudly just the same. Rose had always been good andsteady and thoughtful, but Wolf knew that Norma was clever, taking hisbig-brotherly patronage with admiring awe, but daring where hehesitated, and boldly at home where he was ill at ease. When she saidthat when she got married she wanted Dedham china, and just a plain, glass bowl for goldfish, Wolf nodded, but he would have nodded just asplacidly if she had wanted a Turkish corner and bead portières. Andto-night when she asserted that she wouldn't be Leslie Melrose foranything in the world, Wolf asked in simple wonderment why she shouldbe. 

"Imagine, a maid came to take those big girls home, Wolf! They can speakFrench, " Norma confided. Wolf did not look for coherence from her, andtook the two statements on their face value. "Now, I know I'm notpretty, " she continued, following, as was usual with her, some obscureline of thought, "but I'm prettier than Doris Alexander, and she had herpicture in the paper!"

"Who broke it to you that you're not pretty?" Wolf asked. 

"Well, I _know_ I'm not!" Norma jumped along at his side for a fewminutes, eyeing him expectantly, but Wolf's mind was honestly busy withthis assertion, and he did not speak. Wasn't she pretty? Girls had funnystandards. "You know, " she resumed, "you'd hate a girl like LeslieMelrose, Wolf!"

"Would I?"

"Oh, you'd loathe her. But I'll tell you who you _would_ like, " Normaadded, in a sudden burst. "You'd love Mr. Liggett!"

"Why should I?" Wolf asked, in some surprise. 

"Oh, because he's nice--he's very good-looking, and he has such apleasant voice, as if he knew everything, but wasn't a bit conceited!"Norma said. "And he picks out books for his wife, and when I try to tellhim something about them, he always knows lots more. You know, in apleasant, careless sort of way, not a bit as if he was showing off. AndI'll tell you what he did. Miss Drake was showing him a pottery bowlone day, and she dropped it, and she told me he sort of caught at itwith his hand, and he said to Mr. Biretta, 'I've very stupidly brokenthis--just put it on my bill, will you?' Of course, " Norma added, vivaciously, "old B. G. Immediately said that it was nothing at all, but_you know_ what Miss Drake would have caught, if _she'd_ broken it!"

Perhaps Wolf did, but he was thinking at the moment that the family babywas very cunning, with her bright eyes and indignant mouth. He stoppedher before a vaudeville house, in a flare of bright light. 

"Want to go in?"

"Oh, Wolf! Would Aunt Kate care? Oh, Wolf, _let's_!"

There was absolute ecstasy in her eyes as they went through theenchanted doorway and up the rising empty foyer toward the house. It wasnine o'clock; the performance was fairly under way. Norma rustled into aseat beside her companion without moving her eyes from the colouredcomedian on the stage; she could remove hat and gloves and jacketwithout losing an instant of him. 

When the lights went up Wolf approved the dark hair and the pearls, andbent toward her to hear the unending confidences. Norma thought she hadnever seen anything better, and even Wolf admitted that it was a goodshow. They finished the peppermints, and were very happy. 

They had seen the big film, and so could cut the last third of theprogramme, and reach home at ten o'clock. There was no comment from AuntKate, who was yawning over the evening paper in the dining-room. Roseand Harry were murmuring in the dimly lighted parlour. Wolf, who was ofthe slow-thinking, intense type that discovers a new world every time itreads a new book, was halfway through a shabby library copy of "War andPeace, " and went off to his room with the second volume under his arm. Norma went to her room, too, but she sat dreaming before the mirror, thinking of that Melrose house, and of Leslie's friendliness, until Rosecame in at eleven o'clock. 

CHAPTER III

At almost this same moment Norma's self was the subject of a ratherunusual talk between Christopher Liggett and his wife. 

Christopher had come softly into his house, at about half-past ten, tofind Alice awake, still on the big couch before her fire. Her littlebedroom beyond was softly lighted, the white bed turned down, and thereligious books she always read before going to sleep laid in place byMiss Slater. But Alice had no light except her fire and two or threecandles in old sconces. 

She welcomed Christopher with a smile, and he sat down, in his somewhatrumpled evening dress, and smiled back at her in a rather weary fashion. He often told her that these rooms of hers were a sanctuary, that hetested the men and women he met daily in the world by her fine and loftystandard. It was part of his utter generosity to her that he talked toher as frankly as if he thought aloud, and it was Alice's pride and joyto know that this marriage of theirs, which had so sadly and suddenlybecome no marriage at all, was not as one-sided as the world might havesuspected. Her clear, dispassionate viewpoint and her dignifiedcompanionship were not wifehood, but they were dear and valuable to himnone the less, a part of his life that he would not have spared. And hecould still admire her, too, not only for the exquisite clearness of herintellect, her French and Italian, her knowledge of countries andaffairs, but physically--the clear, childish forehead that was asunwrinkled as Leslie's, the fair, beautifully brushed hair, the mouthwith its chiselling of wisdom and of pain, and the transparent hand fromwhich she shook back transparent laces. She was always proud, alwaysfresh and fragrant, always free for him and for his problems, and it wasproverbial in the circle of their intimates that Chris admired Alicewith all his heart, and never felt himself anything but the privilegedguardian of a treasure. 

To-night he dropped into a chair before her fire, and she watched himfor five or six restful minutes in silence. 

"Stupid dinner?" she ventured. 

"Rotten!" he answered, cheerfully. "I was late, but I got in to hearHendrick's speech. The Vice-President was there, everyone else I knew. Icut away finally; I'm done up. "

"I thought you picked up Hendrick on your way and went together, " Mrs. Liggett said, sympathetically. "I'm sorry it was dull--I suppose menhave to go to these political things!"

Chris was leaning forward, his locked hands dropped between his knees, and his eyes on the fire. 

"Hendrick and I stopped at your mother's, " he said, deliberately, "andshe was so upset that I sent Hendrick on alone!"

Alice's eyes lighted apprehensively, but she spoke very quietly. 

"What was it, Chris? Leslie getting saucy?"

"Oh, no, no! It was a complication of things, I imagine!" Christophertook out his cigarette-case, looked at its moiré surface reflectively, and selected a smoke. "She was tired--she'd been out in thesnow--Leslie had gone off with Annie to some débutante affair--I daresayshe felt blue. Alice, do you remember a woman named Kate Sheridan?"

The question was sudden, and Alice blinked. 

"Yes, I do, " she answered, after a moment's thought, "she was a sort ofmaid or travelling companion of Mama's. We called her Mrs. Sheridan--shewas quite a superior sort of person. "

"What do you remember about her, dear?"

"Well--just that. She came when I was only a child--and then when Anniewas ill in Paris she went abroad with Mama--and I remember that she cameback, and she used to come see me at school, for Mama, and once she tookme up to Grandma's, in Brookline. She was a widow, and she had achild--or two, maybe. Why, Chris?"

Her husband did not answer, and she repeated the question. 

"Well, " he said, at last, flinging the end of his cigarette into thefire, "she came to see your mother to-day. "

Alice waited, a little at a loss. To her this had no particularsignificance. 

"She had her niece with her, young girl about eighteen, " Christophersaid. 

"Well--what _of_ it?" Alice demanded, with a sort of superb indifferenceto anything such a woman might do. 

He looked at her through his round eyeglasses, with the slight frownthat many of life's problems brought to his handsome face. Then theglass fell, on its black ribbon, and he laughed. 

"That's just what I don't _get_, " he said, good-humouredly. "But I'lltell you exactly what occurred. What's-His-Name, your mother'sbutler----"

"Joseph. "

"Joseph. Joseph told me that at about four o'clock this Mrs. Sheridancame in. Your mother had told him that she was expecting the lady, andthat he was to bring her upstairs. With her came this girl--I can'tremember her name--but it was something Sheridan--Nora Sheridan, maybe. Leslie carried the girl off for tea, and the woman stayed with yourmother. 

"Well, at five--or later, this Mrs. Sheridan ran into the hall, and itseems--she's all right now!--it seems that your mother had fainted. "

"Mama!" Alice said, anxiously, with an incredulous frown. 

"Yes, but don't worry. She's absolutely all right now. Leslie, "Christopher went back to his narrative, "Leslie cried, and I supposethere was a scene. Mrs. Sheridan and the girl went home--Leslie dressedand went out--and your mother immediately telephoned Lee----"

"Judge Lee?"

"Yes--she said so. Lee's up in Westchester with his daughter, shecouldn't get him----"

"But, Chris, why did she want her lawyer?"

"That's just it--_why_? Well, then she telephoned here for me--I was onmy way there, as it happened, and just before eight Hendrick and I wentin. I could see she was altogether up stage, so I sent Von on and had itout with her. "

"And what was her explanation, Chris?"

Christopher laughed again. 

"I'll be darned, " he said, thoughtfully, "if I can make head or tail ofit! It would be funny if it wasn't that she's taking it so hard. She wasin bed, and she had been crying--wouldn't eat any dinner----"

"But, Chris, " Alice said, worriedly, "what do you _make_ of it! What didshe _say_?"

"Well, she clasped my hand, and she said that she had an opportunity toundo a great wrong--and that I must help her--and not ask anyquestions--she was just acting as you and I would have her act under thecircumstances----"

"What circumstances?" Alice said, at an utter loss, as he paused. 

"She didn't say, " he smiled. 

"Oh, come, now, Chris, she must have said more than that!"

"No, she didn't. She said that she must make it up to this girl, and shewished to see Lee about it immediately. "

"To change her will!" Alice exclaimed. 

"She didn't say so. Of course, it may be some sort of blackmail. "Christopher looked whimsically at his wife. "As I remember myfather-in-law, " he said, "it seems to me improbable that out of the pastcould come this engaging young girl--very pretty, they said----"

"Father! Oh, nonsense!" Alice exclaimed, almost in relief at theabsurdity. "No, but it might be some business--some claim against thefirm, " she suggested. 

"Well, I thought of that. But there are one or two reasons why itdoesn't seem the solution. I asked your mother if it was money, and shesaid no, said it positively and repeatedly. Then I asked her if shewould like this Sheridan woman shut up, and she was quite indignant. Kate!--Kate was one of the most magnificent women God had ever made, andso on!"

"Well, I do remember Mrs. Sheridan as a lovely sort of person, " Alicecontributed. "Plain, you know, but quite wonderful for--well, _goodness_. It's funny--but then you know Mama is terribly excitable, "she added, "she gets frightfully worked up over nothing, or almostnothing. It's quite possible that when Kate recalled old times to hershe suddenly wished that she had done more for Kate--something likethat. She'd think nothing of sending for Judge Lee on the spot. Youremember her recalling us from our wedding-trip because she couldn'tfind the pearls? All the way from Lake Louise to hear that they had beenlost!"

"I know, " Christopher smiled. "She is--unique, _ma belle mère_. ByGeorge, I'll never forget our rushing into the house like maniacs, notknowing what had happened to Leslie or Acton, and having her fallsobbing into your arms, with the pearls in her hands!"

"Mama's wonderful, " Alice laughed. "Chris, did you eat any dinner?"

He considered. 

"But I'm really not hungry, dear, " he protested. 

Alice, superbly incredulous, rang at once. Who was in the kitchen? Well, she was to be asked to send up a tray at once to Mr. Liggett. "Now thatyou asked me, the dinner had reached the point of ice-cream in a papertub, as I sat down, " he remembered. "You're a little miracle of healingto me, Alice. When I came in here I didn't know _what_ we were upagainst, as a family. Your mother wished the girl pensioned----"

"Oh, Chris, not really?"

"I give you my word!" But he was enough his usual self to have taken hisseat at the piano, now, and was looking at her across it, while hisfingers fitted themselves lazily to chords and harmonics. 

"I'll tell you something, if you'll promise to stop playing the instantyour supper comes up!"

"I'll promise!"

"Well, then--the new Puccini is there!" She nodded toward themusic-shelves, and he turned to the new score with an eager exclamation. Fifteen minutes later she had to scold him to bring him to the fireagain, and to the smoking little supper. While Alice sipped ginger ale, Christopher fell upon his meal, and they discussed the probablepresentation of the opera, and its quality. 

But an hour later, when she was in bed, and Christopher was going backto the piano for another half-hour of music, she caught his hand. 

"Chris, you're not worried about this Sheridan matter?"

"Worried? No, dearest child, what is there to worry about? It isn'tblackmail, apparently it's nothing but an overdose of imagination onyour mother's part. If the girl really was promised something, orhas--for example!--old stock, or if her father was an employee who didthis or that or the other--Mrs. Sheridan's husband was employed by yourfather at the time of his death, by the way--why, it's easy enough topay the claim, whatever it is! The girl seems to have made a niceimpression--your mother tells me she's sold me books, but that doesn'tmean much, I buy books everywhere! No, I don't think you'll ever hear ofher again. But your mother will be here in a day or two; see what youcan make of it all!"

"Oh, of course, it's nothing _wrong_!" Alice said, confidently. 

And Christopher returned to his beloved piano, relieved in mind by hiswife's counsel, refreshed in body by the impromptu supper, and ready forthe music that soothed in him all the restless and unsatisfied fibres ofhis soul. 

CHAPTER IV

Annie, who signed herself "Anne Melrose von Behrens, " was the realdictator in the various circles of the allied families, and had afashion of finding herself supreme in larger circles, as well. Annie wasthirty-seven or eight, tall, thin, ash-blonde, superb in manner andbearing. Nature had been generous to her, but she had done far more forherself than Nature had. Her matchless skin, her figure, her hands, hervoice, were all the result of painstaking and intelligent care. Anniehad been a headstrong, undisciplined girl twenty years ago. She had comeback from a European visit, at twenty-three, with a vague if generalreputation of being "a terror. " But Annie was clever, and she had realcharm. She spoke familiarly of European courts, had been presented evenin inaccessible Vienna. She spoke languages, quoted poets, had greatwriters and painters for her friends, and rippled through songs that hadbeen indisputably dedicated, in flowing foreign hands, to the beautifulMademoiselle Melrose. Society bowed before Annie; she was the sensationof her winter, and the marriage she promptly made was the most brilliantin many winters. 

Annie proceeded to bear her sober, fine, dull, and devoted Hendrick twosplendid sons, and thus riveted to herself his lasting devotion andtrust. The old name was safe, the millions would descend duly to youngHendrick and Piet. The family had been rich, conspicuous, and respectedin the city, since its sturdy Holstein cattle had browsed along thefields of lower Broadway, but under Annie's hands it began to shine. Annie's handsome motor-cars bore the family arms, her china had beenmade in the ancestral village, two miles from Rotterdam, and alsocarried the shield. Her city home, in Fifth Avenue, was so magnificent, so chastely restrained and sober, so sternly dignified, that it set thecue for half the other homes of the ultra-aristocratic set. Annie'sservants had been in the Von Behrens family for years; there was nothingin the Avenue house, or the Newport summer home, that was not ashandsome, as old, as solid, as carven, as richly dull, or as purelyshining, as human ingenuity could contrive to have it. Collectors savedtheir choicest discoveries for Annie; and there was no painter in thenew world who would not have been proud to have Annie place a canvas ofhis among her treasures from the old. 

If family relics were worth preserving, what could be more remarkablethan Annie's Washington letter, her Jefferson tray, her Gainsboroughs ofthe Murisons who had been the only Americans so honoured by the painter?Melrose and Von Behrens honours crowded each other--here was the thinold silver "shepherdess" cup awarded that Johanna von Behrens who hadwon a prize with her sheep, while Washington was yet a boy; and here thequaint tortoise-shell snuff-box that a great prince, homeless andunknown, had given the American family that took him in; and the silverbuttons from Lafayette's waistcoat that the great Frenchman hadpresented Colonel Horace Murison of the "Continentals. "

These things were not thrust at the visitor, nor indeed were theyconspicuous among the thousand other priceless souvenirs that Annie hadgathered about her. 

"Rather nice, isn't it?" Annie would say, abstractedly, when someenthusiastic girl pored over the colonial letters or the old portraits. "See here, Margaret, " she might add, casually, "do you see the inside ofthis little slipper, my dear? Read what's written there: 'In theseslippers Deborah Murison danced with Governor Winthrop, on the night ofher fifteenth birthday, July 1st, 1742. ' Isn't that rather quaint?"

Annie could afford to be casual, to be abstracted. In her all the prideof the Melrose and Murison families was gathered; hers was an arroganceso sure of itself, a self-confidence so supreme, that the worldquestioned it no more than it questioned the heat of the sun. The oldsilver, the Copleys, and the colonial china, the Knickerbocker "courtchests" with their great locks of Dutch silver, and the laces that hadbeen shown at the Hague two hundred years before, were all confirmed, all reinforced, as it were, by the power and prosperity of to-day. Itwas no by-gone glory that made brilliant the lives of Hendrick and AnneMelrose von Behrens. Hendrick's cousins and uncles, magnificent personsof title, were prominent in Holland to-day, their names associated withthat of royalty, and their gracious friendship extended to the Americanbranch of the family whenever Hendrick chose to claim it. Old maps ofNew York bore the boundary lines of the Von Behrens farm; earlyhistories of the city mingled the names of Melrose and Von Behrens amongthose of the men who had served the public need. 

Wherever there was needed that tone that only names of prominence andwealth can bestow Annie's name was solicited. Wherever it appeared itgave the instant stamp of dignity and integrity. She had seen this goaldimly in the distance, when she stepped from her rather spoiled andwilful girlhood into this splendid wifehood, but even Annie wasastonished at the rapidity with which it had come about. Mama, ofcourse, had known all the right people, even if she _had_ dropped allsocial ties after Papa's death. And Hendrick's name was an open sesame. But even so it was surprising, and it was gratifying. 

In appearance Annie had no problem. If she was not a beauty she was nearenough to being one. She was smart enough, and blonde enough, andsplendidly dressed enough to be instantly identifiable, and that was allshe desired. Financially, Annie had no problem. Her own inheritance andher husband's great wealth silenced all question there. The Murisonpearls and the famous diamond tiara that her father had given her motheryears ago had come to Annie, but they were eclipsed by the Von Behrensfamily jewels, and these were all hers, with the laces, and the ivories, and the brocades. Life could give nothing more to Annie, but not manywomen would have made so much of what Annie had. There was, far down andout of sight, a little streak of the adventuress in her, and she neverstopped halfway. 

A young wife, Annie had dutifully considered her nursery. 

"Hendrick's is the elder line, of course, although it is the colonialone, " Annie had said, superintending a princely layette. The child was ason, his father's image, and nobody who knew Annie was in the leastsurprised that fortune had fallen in with her plans. It was themagnificent Annie who was quoted as telling Madame Modiste to give her afitter who would not talk; it was Annie who decided what should be donein recognizing the principals of the Jacqmain divorce, and that oldFloyd Densmore's actress-wife should not be accepted. Annie's neat andquiet answer to a certain social acquaintance who remarked, in Annie'slittle gallery, "I have seen the original of that picture, in one of theEuropean galleries, " was still quoted by Annie's friends. "This _is_ theoriginal!" Annie had said quite simply and truthfully. 

Leslie admired her aunt more than any one else in the world. Grandma wasold-fashioned, and Aunt Alice insignificant, in Leslie's eyes, butstunning, arrogant, fearless Aunt Annie was the model upon which shewould have based herself if she had known how. Annie's quickpositiveness with her servants, her cool friendliness with big men, andclever men, her calm assurance as to which hats she liked, and whichhats she didn't, her utter belief in everything that was of Melrose orvon Behrens, and her calm contempt for everything that was not, weremasterly in Leslie's eyes. 

Annie might have been a strong royalist had she been born a fewgenerations earlier. But in Annie's day the ideal of social service hadbeen laid down by fashion, and she was consequently a tremendouslyindependent and energetic person, with small time for languishing airs. She headed committees and boards, knew hundreds of working girls byname, kept a secretary and a stenographer, and mentioned topics at bigdinners that would not have shocked either old Goodwife Melrose ofBoston, or Vrouw von Behrens of Nieu Amsterdam, for neither had thefaintest idea that such things, or their names, existed. 

Withal, Annie was attractive, even her little affectations wereimpressive, and as she went about from luncheons to meetings, swept upto her model nursery to revel in her model boys, tossed aside regal fursand tore off princely rings the better to play with them, wrapped herbeautiful figure in satins and jewels to descend to formal dinners, shewas almost as much admired and envied and copied as she might fondlyhave hoped to be. She managed her life on modern lines of efficiency, planned ahead what she wished, tutored herself not to think of anythingundesirable as being even in the range of possibility, trod lightly uponthe sensitive souls of others, and asked no quarter herself, aimed high, and enjoyed her life and its countless successes to the full. 

Of course there had been setbacks. Her brother Theodore, his mostunfortunate marriage to a servant, his intemperance, the general scandalof his mother's violent detestation of his wife, all this was mostunpleasant. But Louison, the wife, upon sufficient pressure, had broughther child to the Melroses, and had doubtfully disappeared, and Theodorehad returned from his wanderings to live, silent and unobtrusive, in hismother's home, for several years, and to die with his daughter besidehim, and be duly laid in the Melrose plot at Woodlawn. AndLeslie--Leslie had repaid them all, for all of it. 

Alice was another disappointment, or had been one, to Annie. For Alice, after having achieved a most unexpectedly satisfactory marriage, andhaving set up her household gods in the very shadow of her sister'sbrilliant example, as it were, had met with that most unfortunateaccident. For a few years Annie had been utterly exasperated whenevershe thought of it. For Christopher was really an extraordinary husbandfor Alice to hold, even in normal circumstances. He was so outrageously, frightfully, irresistibly popular with women everywhere, his wife mustneeds keep a very sharp, albeit loving, eye upon him. A sickly wife--awife who was a burden and a reproach, that would be fatal to them all!

But Alice had showed unsuspected courage and pride in this hard trial. She had made herself beautiful, well-informed, tactful; she had madeherself a magnet to her husband's friends, and his home the centre of areal social group. Annie respected her for it, and helped her byflashing into her rooms not less often than every alternate day, withgossip, with books, with hints that showed Alice just where her coursein this or that matter must lie. 

So Alice had come to be an actual asset, and now to her Aunt Annie'stremendous satisfaction, Leslie promised to add one more feather to thefamily cap by announcing her engagement to Acton Liggett. Annie smiledto herself whenever she thought of it. When this was consummated shewould have nothing left but the selection of suitable wives for HendrickJunior, now aged ten, and Piet, who was four years younger. 

Two or three days after the ending of the big snow-storm, and thebeginning of that domestic storm that was destined strangely to changesome of the lives nearest her, Annie went in to have luncheon with hersister. It was a brilliant sunshiny winter day, with crossings swimmingin melting snow and roofs steaming brightly into the clear air. 

Annie went straight upstairs to Alice's room, with the usual apology forlateness. She kissed Alice lightly on the forehead, and while Freda wascoming and going with their meal, they discussed the little boys, books, politics, and the difficulties of the city in the snow. 

But when they were alone Annie asked immediately:

"What on earth is the matter with Mama, Alice?"

"You mean about----? Did she tell you?"

"No; she didn't have to. Leslie ran in yesterday afternoon, and told methat Mama has been in bed since Saturday! I telephoned Sunday morning, but Hendrick and I were taking the boys up to his uncle's house, inWestchester, and--as she didn't say one word about being ill--I didn'tsee her that day, nor yesterday, as it happened, for we didn't come downuntil noon. When Leslie came in, there were other people there for tea, and I didn't have a chance to speak to her alone. But I went over toMama this morning, and she seems all broken up!"

"What did she tell you?" Alice asked, anxiously. 

"Oh, my dear, you know Mama! She wept, and patted my hand, and said thatit was sad to be the last of your own generation, and she hoped you andI would always have each other, and that she had always loved us, andtried to do her best for us----"

Alice laughed. 

"Poor Mama! She gets so worked up!" she said. 

"But what do you make of it?" demanded Annie. "She talked of this KateSheridan--I remember her perfectly, she came to Paris when I was soill, years ago. Poor Mama cried, and said that she wished to dosomething for Kate. Now you know, Alice, " Annie went on reasonably, "nobody is tying Mama's hands! If she wants to educate this younggirl--this Norma person--to please Kate, or all her children for thatmatter, she doesn't have to go into hysterics, and send for Judge Lee. She said she didn't feel at all well, and she wanted to secure to Katesome money in her will I told her it was ridiculous--she never lookedbetter in her life! I wish she could get over to see you, Alice; youalways soothe her so. What on earth does Chris make of it?"

"Well, I'll tell you what we've done, " Alice smiled. "Chris went to seeher Sunday, and they had a long talk. He tells me that she was just asvague and unsatisfactory as ever, but calmer, and she finally admittedthat all she really wanted to do was to befriend this niece of KateSheridan. Of course Chris and I think Mama has one of her funny notionsabout it, but if the child's mother had befriended Mama, for example, athousand years ago, or if Mama had borrowed five dollars from Kate, andforgotten to return it, you know that would be enough to account for allthis excitement. "

"Yes, I know!" Annie admitted, with her favourite look of intolerant, yet indulgent, scorn. 

"Well, it seems the girl is in Biretta's Bookshop, and Chris has oftenbought books of her. So to quiet Mama he promised that he would bringher out here to have tea with me some day soon. Mama was delighted, andI think she hopes that a friendship will come of it. " Alice threwherself back into the pillows, and drew a great breath as if she wereweary. "I only want to please Mama!" she finished. 

"You're an angel, " Annie said, absently. "I suppose I could get thetruth out of Mama in five seconds, " she mused. "It looks to me ratherlike blackmail!"

"No; she said not!" Alice contradicted, quickly. 

"Well, it's all so silly, " the elder sister said, impatiently. "Andcoming just now----" she added, significantly. 

"Yes. I know!" Alice agreed, with a comprehending look. And in loweredtones they began to talk of Leslie's possible engagement. 

CHAPTER V

Norma Sheridan saw the engagement announced in a morning paper two weekslater, and carried the picture of pretty Miss Melrose home, to entertainthe dinner table. The news had been made known at a dinner given toforty young persons, in the home of the débutante's aunt, Mrs. Hendrickvon Behrens. Miss Melrose, said the paper, was the daughter and heiressof the late Theodore Melrose, and made her home with her grandmother. Mr. Liggett was the brother of Christopher Liggett, whose marriage toMiss Alice Melrose was a social event some years ago. A number ofdinners and dances were already planned in honour of the young pair. 

Norma looked at the pictured face with a little stir of feelings soconfused that she could not define them, at her heart. But she passedthe paper to her aunt with no comment. 

"You might send them two dozen kitchen towels, Mother, " Wolf suggested, drily, and Rose laughed joyously. Her own engagement present from hermother had been this extremely practical one, and Rose loved to open herlower bureau drawer, and gloat over the incredible richness ofpossessing twenty-four smooth, red-striped, well-hemmed glass-towels, all her own. Norma had brought her two thick, dull gray Dedham bowls, with ducks waddling around them, and these were in the drawer, too, wrapped in tissue paper. And beside these were the length oflemon-coloured silk that Rose had had for a year, without making up, andsix of her mother's fine sheets of Irish linen, and two glasscandlesticks that Rose had won at a Five-hundred party. Altogether, Rosefelt that she was making great strides toward home-making, especially asshe and Harry must wait for months, perhaps a year. Norma had promisedher two towels a month, until there were a whole dozen, and Wolf, prompted by the same generous little heart, told her not to give thegas-stove a thought, for she was to have the handsomest one that moneycould buy, with a stand-up oven and a water-heater, from her brother. Rose walked upon air. 

But Norma was in a mood that she herself seemed unable to understand orto combat. She felt a constant inclination toward tears. She didn't hatethe Melroses--no, they had been most friendly and kind. But--but it wasa funny world in which one girl had everything, like Leslie, and anothergirl had no brighter prospect than to drudge away in a bookstore all herlife, or to go out on Sundays with her cousin. Norma dreamed for hoursof Leslie's life, the ease and warmth and beauty of it, and when Lesliewas actually heralded as engaged the younger girl felt a pang of thefirst actual jealousy she had ever known. She imagined the beautifuldrawing-room in which Acton Liggett--perhaps as fascinating a person ashis brother!--would clasp pearls about Leslie's fair little throat; sheimagined the shining dinner tables at which Leslie's modestly droppedblonde head would be stormed with compliments and congratulations. 

And suddenly molasses peppermints and dish-washing became odious toher, and she almost disliked Rose for her pitiable ecstasies over chinabowls and glass-towels. All the pleasant excitement of her call uponMrs. Melrose, with Aunt Kate, died away. It had seemed the beginning ofsome vaguely dreamed-of progress toward a life of beauty andachievement, but it was two weeks ago now, and its glamour was fading. 

True, Christopher Liggett had come into Biretta's bookstore, withLeslie, and he and Norma had talked together for a few minutes, andLeslie had extended her Aunt Alice's kind invitation for tea. But no dayhad been set for the tea, Norma reflected gloomily. Now, she supposed, the stir of Leslie's engagement would put all that out of Christopher'shead. 

Wolf was not particularly sympathetic with her, she mused, disconsolately. Wolf had been acting in an unprecedented manner of late. Rose's engagement seemed to have completely turned his head. He laughedat Norma, hardly heard her words when she spoke to him, and never movedhis eyes from her when they were together. Norma could not look up fromher book, or her plate, or from the study of a Broadway shop window, without encountering that same steady, unembarrassed, half-puzzledstare. 

"What's the matter with you, Wolf?" she would ask, impatiently. But Wolfnever told her. 

As a matter of fact, he did not know. He was a silent, thoughtfulfellow, old for his years in many ways, and in some still a boy. Normaand Rose had known only the more prosperous years of Kate's life, butWolf remembered many a vigil with his mother, remembered her lonelystruggles to make a living for him and for the girls. He himself was thetype that inevitably prospers--industrious, good, intelligent, andpainstaking, but as a young boy in the working world he had early seenthe terrors in the lives of men about him: drink, dirt, unemployment anddisease, debt and dishonour. Wolf was not quick of thought; he hadlittle imagination, rather marvelling at other men's cleverness thandisplaying any of his own, and he had reached perhaps his twenty-secondor twenty-third summer before he realized that these terrors did notmenace him, that whatever changes he made in his work would beimprovements, steps upward. For actual months after the move to New YorkWolf had pondered it, in quiet gratitude and pleasure. Rent and billscould be paid, there might be theatre treats for the girls, and chickenfor Sunday supper, and yet the savings account in the Broadway bankmight grow steadily, too. Far from being a slave to his employer, Wolfbegan to realize that this rather simple person was afraid of him, afraid that young Sheridan and some of the other smart, ingenious, practically educated men in his employ might recognize too soon theirown independence. 

And when the second summer in New York came, and Wolf could negotiatethe modest financial deal that gave him and the girls a second-handmotor-car to cruise about in on Sundays and holidays, when they couldpicnic up in beautiful Connecticut, or unpack the little fringed rednapkins far down on the Long Island shore, life had begun to seem verypleasant to him. Debt and dirt and all the squalid horrors of what hehad seen, and what he had read, had faded from his mind, and for awhilehe had felt that his cup could hold no more. 

But now, just lately, there was something else, and although the fullsignificance of it had not yet actually dawned upon him, Wolf began torealize that a change was near. It was the most miraculous thing thathad ever come to him, although it concerned only little Norma--only thelittle cousin who had been an actual member of his family for all theseyears. 

He had heard his mother say a thousand times that she was pretty; he hadlaughed himself a thousand times at her quick wit. But he had neverdreamed that it would make his heart come up into his throat andsuffocate him whenever he thought of her, or that her lightest andsimplest words, her most casual and unconscious glance, would burn inhis heart for hours. 

During his busy days Wolf found himself musing about this undefined andnebulous happiness that began to tremble, like a growing brightnessbehind clouds, through all his days and nights. Had there ever been atime, he wondered, when he had taken her for granted, helped her intoher blessed little coat as coolly as he had Rose? Had it been this sameNorma who scolded him about throwing his collars on the floor, and whohad sent his coat to the cleaner with a ten-dollar bill in the pocket?

Wolf remembered summer days, and little Norma chattering beside him onthe front seat, as the shabby motor-car fled through the hot, dry citytoward shade and coolness. He remembered early Christmas Mass, and Normaand Rose kneeling between him and his mother, in the warm, fir-scentedchurch. He remembered breakfast afterward, in a general sense of hungerand relaxation and well-being, and the girls exulting over theirpresents. And every time that straight-shouldered, childish figure cameinto his dream, that mop of cloudy dark hair and flashing laugh, thenew delicious sense of some unknown felicity touched him, and he wouldglance about the busy factory self-consciously, as if his thoughts werewritten on his face for all the world to read. 

Wolf had never had a sweetheart. It came to him with the blinding flashof all epoch-making discoveries that Norma was his girl--that he wantedNorma for his own, and that there was no barrier between them. And inthe ecstasy of this new vision, which changed the whole face of hisworld, he was content to wait with no special impatience for the hour inwhich he should claim her. Of course Norma must like him--must love him, as he did her, unworthy as he felt himself of her, and wonderful as thisnew Norma seemed to be. Wolf, in his simple way, felt that this had beenhis destiny from the beginning. 

That a glimpse of life as foreign and unnatural as the Melrose lifemight seriously disenchant Norma never occurred to him. Norma had alwaysbeen fanciful, it was a part of her charm. Wolf, who worked in the greatForman shops, had felt it no particular distinction when by chance oneday he had been called from his luncheon to look at the engine of youngStanley Forman's car. He had left his seat upon a pile of lumber, boltedthe last of his pie, and leaned over the hood of the specially designedracer interested only in its peculiarities, and entirely indifferent tothe respectful young owner, who was aware that he knew far less about itthan this mechanic did. Sauntering back to his work in the autumnsunlight, Wolf had followed the youthful millionaire by not even athought. If he had done so, it might have been a half-contemptuousdecision that a man who knew so little of engines ought not to drive aracer. 

So Norma's half-formed jealousies, desires, and dreams were a sealedbook to him. But this very unreasonableness lent her an odd exotic charmin his eyes. She was to Wolf like a baby who wants the moon. The moonmight be an awkward and useless possession, and the baby much betterwithout it, still there is something winning and touching about thelittle imperious mouth and the little upstretched arms. 

One night, when he had reached home earlier than either of the girls, Wolf was in the warm bright kitchen, alone with his mother. He wasseated at the end of the scrubbed and bleached little table; Kate at theother end was neatly and dexterously packing a yellow bowl with breadpudding. 

"Do you remember, years and years ago, Mother, " Wolf said, chewing araisin, thoughtfully, "that you told me that Norma isn't my realcousin?"

Kate's ruddy colour paled a little, and she looked anxious. Not Perseus, coming at last in sight of his Gorgon, had a heart more sick with fearthan hers was at that instant. 

"What put that into your head, dear?"

"Well, I don't know. But it's true, isn't it?"

Kate scattered chopped nuts from the bowl of her spoon. 

"Yes, it's true, " she said. "There's not a drop of the same blood inyour veins, although I love her as I do you and Rose. "

She was silent, and Wolf, idly turning the egg-beater in an empty dish, smiled to himself. 

"But what made you think of that, Wolf?" his mother asked. 

"I don't know!" Wolf did not look at her, but his big handsome face wassuffused with happy colour. "Harry and Rose, maybe, " he admitted. 

Kate sat down suddenly, her eyes upon him. 

"Not the Baby?" she half whispered. 

Her son leaned back in his chair, and folded his big arms across hischest. When he looked at her the smile had faded from his face, and hiseyes were a trifle narrowed, and his mouth set. 

"I guess so!" he said, simply. "I guess it's always been--Norma. But Ididn't always know it. I used to think of her as just anothersister--like Rose. But I know now that she'll never seem thatagain--never did, really. "

He was silent, and Kate sat staring at him in silence. 

"Has she any relatives, Mother?"

"Has--what?"

"Has she people--who are they?"

Kate looked at the floor. 

"She has no one but me, Son. "

"Of course, she's not nineteen, and I don't believe it's ever crossedher mind, " Wolf said. "I don't think Norma ever had a real affair--justkid affairs, like Paul Harrison, and that man at the store who used tosend her flowers. But I don't believe those count. "

"I don't think she ever has, " Kate said, heavily getting to her feet, and beginning to pour her custard slowly through the packed bread. Presently she stopped, and set the saucepan down, her eyes narrowed andfixed on space. Then Wolf saw her press the fingers of one hand uponher mouth, a sure sign of mental perturbation. 

"I know I'm not worthy to tie her little shoes for her, Mother, " hesaid, suddenly, and very low. 

"There's no woman in the world good enough for you, " his motheranswered, with a troubled laugh. And she gave the top of his head one ofher rare, brisk kisses as she passed him, on her way out of the room. 

Wolf was sufficiently familiar with the domestic routine to know thatevery minute was precious now, and that she was setting the table. Buthis heart was heavy with a vague uneasiness; she had not encouraged himvery much. She had not accepted this suggestion as she did almost all ofthe young people's ideas, with eager cooperation and sympathy. He satbrooding at the kitchen table, her notable lack of enthusiasm chillinghim, and infusing him with her own doubts. 

When she came back, she stood with her back turned to him, busied withsome manipulation of platters and jars in the ice-box. 

"Wolf, dear, " she said, "I want to ask you something. The child's tooyoung to listen to you--or any one!--now. Promise me--_promise me_, thatyou'll speak to me again before you----"

"Certainly I'll promise that, Mother!" Wolf said, quickly, hurt to thesoul. She read his tone aright, and came to lay her cheek against hishair. 

"Listen to me, Son. Since the day her mother gave her to me I've hopedit would be this way! But there's nothing to be gained by hurry. You----"

"But you would be glad, Mother! You do think that she might have me?"poor Wolf said, eagerly and humbly. He was amazed to see tears brimminghis mother's eyes as she nodded and turned away. 

Before either spoke again a rush in the hall announced the home-cominggirls, who entered the kitchen gasping and laughing with the cold. 

"Whew!" panted Norma, catching Wolf's hands in her own half-frozen ones. "I'm dying! Oh, Wolf, feel my nose!" She pressed it against hisforehead. "Oh, there's a wind like a knife--and look at my shoe--in Iwent, right through the ice! Oh, Aunt Kate, let me stay here!" andlocking both slender arms about the older woman's neck, she dropped herdark, shining head upon her breast like a storm-blown bird. "It's fourbelow zero in Broadway this minute, " she added, looking sidewise underher curling lashes at Wolf. 

"Who said so?" Wolf demanded. 

"The man I bought that paper from said so; go back and ask him. Oh, joy, that looks good!" said Norma, eyeing the pudding that was now beingdrawn, crackling, bubbling, and crisp, from the oven. "Rose and I fellover the new lineoleum in the hall; I thought it was a dead body!" shewent on, cheerfully. "I came _down_ on my family feature with such anoise that I thought the woman downstairs would be rattling thedumb-waiter ropes again long before this!" She stepped to thedumb-waiter, and put her head into the shaft. "What is it, darling?" shecalled. 

"Norma, behave yourself. It would serve you good and right if she heardyou, " Mrs. Sheridan said, in a panic. "Go change your shoes, and comeand eat your dinner. I believe, " her aunt added, pausing near her, "thatyou _did_ skin your nose in the hall. "

"Oh, heavens!" Norma exclaimed, bringing her face close to the darkwindow, as to a mirror. "Oh, say it will be gone by Friday! Because onFriday I'm going to have tea with Mrs. Liggett--her husband came into-day and asked me. Oh, the darling! He certainly is the--well, themost--well, I don't know!----His voice, and the quiet, _quiet_ way----"

"Oh, for pity's sake go change your shoes!" Rose interrupted. "You arethe biggest idiot! I went into the store to get her, " Rose explained, "and I've had all this once, in the subway. How Mr. Liggett picks up hisglasses, on their ribbon, to read the titles of books----"

"Oh, you shut up!" Norma called, departing. And unashamed, when dinnerwas finished, and the table cleared, she produced a pack of cards andsaid that she was going to play _The Idle Year_. 

". .. And if I get it, it'll mean that the man I marry is going to lookexactly like Chris Liggett. "

She did not get it, and played it again. The third time she interruptedWolf's slow and patient perusal of the _Scientific American_ to announcethat she was now going to play it to see if he was in love with MaryRedding. 

"Think how nice that would be, Aunt Kate, a double wedding. And if Wolfor Rose died and left a lot of children, the other one would always bethere to take in whoever was left--you know what I mean!"

"You're the one Wolf ought to marry, to make it complete, " Rose, who wasneatly marking a cross-stitch "R" on a crash towel, retaliated neatly. 

"I can't marry my cousin, Miss Smarty. "

"Oh, don't let a little thing like that worry you, " Wolf said, lookingacross the table. 

"Our children would be idiots--perhaps they would be, anyway!" Normareminded him, in a gale of laughter. Her aunt looked up disapprovinglyover her glasses. 

"Baby, don't talk like that. That's not a nice way to talk at all. Wolf, you lead her on. Now, we'll not have any more of that, if you please. Isee the President is making himself very unpopular, Wolf--I don't knowwhy they all make it so hard for the poor man! Mrs. McCrea was in themarket this morning----"

"If I win this game, Rose, by this time next year, " Norma said, in anundertone, "you'll have----"

"Norma Sheridan!"

"Yes, Aunt Kate!"

"Do you want me to speak to you again?"

"No, ma'am!"

Norma subsided for a brief space, Rose covertly watching the game. Presently the younger girl burst forth anew. 

"Listen, Wolf, I'll bet you that I can get more words out of the lettersin Christopher than you can!"

Wolf roused himself, smiled, took out his fountain pen, and reached fora sheet of paper. He was always ready for any sort of game. Norma, bending herself to the contest, put her pencil into her mouth, andstared fixedly at the green-shaded drop light. Rose, according toancient precedent, was permitted to assist evenly and alternately. 

And Kate, watching them and listening, even while she drowsed over theWoman's Page, decided that after all they were nothing but a pack ofchildren. 

CHAPTER VI

To Leslie Melrose had come the very happiest time of her life. She hadalways had everything she wanted; it had never occurred to her toconsider a fortunate marriage engagement as anything but a matter ofcourse, in her case. She was nineteen, she was "mad, " in her own terms, about Acton Liggett, and the engagement was the natural result. 

But the ensuing events were far more delightful than Leslie had dreamed, even in her happy dreams. All her world turned from its affairs ofbusiness and intrigue and amusement to centre its attention upon herlittle person for the moment, and to shower her with ten times enoughflattery and praise to turn a much steadier head. Presents rained uponLeslie, and every one of them was astonishingly handsome and valuable;newspapers clamoured for her picture, and wherever she went she wasimmediately the focus for all eyes. That old Judge Lee should send hersome of his mother's beautiful diamonds; that Christopher and Aliceshould order for her great crates of specially woven linen that wereworthy of a queen; that Emanuel Massaro, the painter of the hour, shouldask her to sit for him, were all just so much sheer pleasure added tothe sum total of her happiness in loving the man of her choice andknowing herself beloved by him. 

Leslie found herself, for the first time in her life, a person ofimportance with Aunt Annie, too. The social leader found time to adviseher little niece in the new contingencies that were perpetually arising, lent Leslie her private secretary for the expeditious making of lists orwriting of notes, and bullied her own autocratic modiste into promisingat least half of the trousseau. It was Annie who decided that themarriage must be at a certain Park Avenue church, and at a certain hour, and that the reception at the house must be arranged in a certainmanner, and no other. Hendrick or Judge Lee would give away the bride, Christopher would be his brother's best man, and Leslie would be giventime to greet her guests and change her gown and be driven to Alice'shouse for just one kiss before she and Acton went away. 

Acton had begged for an Easter wedding, but Leslie, upon her aunt'sadvice, held out for June. If the war was over by that time--andeveryone said it must be, for so hideous a combat could not possiblylast more than six or eight months--then they would go to England andthe Continent, but otherwise they might drift through Canada to thePacific Coast, and even come back by San Francisco and the newly openedCanal. 

Meanwhile, Annie entertained her niece royally and untiringly. Formaldinners to old family friends must come first, but when spring arrivedLeslie was promised house parties and yachting trips more after her ownheart. The girl was so excited, so bewildered and tired, even after thefirst two weeks, that she remained in bed until noon every day, and hada young maid especially detailed to take her dressmaker's fittings forher. But even so she lost weight, her cheeks burned and her eyesglittered feverishly, and her voice took an unnaturally high key, herspeech a certain shallow quickness. Acton's undeviating adoration shetook with a pretty, spoiled acquiescence, and with old family friendsshe was charmingly dutiful and deferential, but always with the air ofsparing a few glittering drops to their age and dulness from theoverflowing cup of her youth and beauty and power. But with hergrandmother and aunts she had a new attitude of self-confidence, and toher girl friends she was no longer the old intimate and equal, but abeing who had, for the moment at least, left them all behind. She wouldshow them the new silver, the new linens, the engagement-time frocksthat were in themselves a trousseau, and wish that Doris or Marion orVirginia were engaged, too; it was such fun! And with older women, thedébutantes of six and eight and ten years ago, who had failed of allthis glory, who could only listen sweetly to the chatter of plans andhonours, and look in uncomplaining admiration at the blazing ring, Leslie was quite merciless. The number of times that she managed tomention her age, the fact that Madame Modiste had tried to give herfittings after three o'clock under the impression that she was aschoolgirl, and the "craziness" of "little me" going over all the lateMrs. Liggett's chests of silver and china, perhaps only theseunsuccessful candidates for matrimony could estimate. Certainly Leslieherself was quite unconscious of it, and truly believed what she heardon all sides, that she was "adorable, " and "not changed one bit, " and"just as unconscious that there was anything else in the world butActon, as a little girl with her first doll. "

Christopher and Alice, in the first years of their married life, hadbuilt a home at Glen Cove, and Christopher made this his weddingpresent to his brother. Necessarily, even the handsomest of countryhomes, if ten years old, needs an almost complete renovation, and thisrenovation Acton and Leslie, guided by a famous architect, beganrapturously to plan, reserving a beautiful apartment not far from Alicein Park Avenue for autumn furnishing and refitting. 

All these activities and interests kept the lovers busy, and kept themapart indeed, or united them only in groups of other people. But Actoncould bring his pretty sweetheart home from a dinner now and then, andcome into the old Melrose house for a precious half hour of murmuringtalk, or could sometimes persuade her to leave a tea or a matinée earlyenough to walk a few blocks with him. 

In this fashion they slipped away from a box party one Friday afternoon, and found themselves walking briskly northward, into the neighbourhoodof Alice's house. Leslie had had, for several days, a rather guiltyfeeling in regard to this lovely aunt. It was really hard, rising atnoon, and trying to see and please so many persons, to keep in closetouch with the patient and uncomplaining invalid, who had to dependwholly upon the generosity of those she loved for knowledge of them. SoLeslie was glad to suggest, and Acton glad to agree, that they hadbetter go in and see Aunt Alice for a few minutes. 

As usual, Mrs. Liggett had company, although it proved only to be thepretty Miss Sheridan who had called upon Leslie's grandmother on thefirst day of that mysterious indisposition that had kept the old ladybedridden almost ever since. 

Alice looked oddly tired, but her eyes were shining brightly, and Normawas charmingly happy and at ease. She jumped up to shake hands withActon with a bright comment that he was not in the _least_ like hisbrother, and recalled herself to Leslie before offering her all sorts ofgood wishes. Norma, hoping that it would some day occur, had indeedanticipated this meeting with Leslie by a little mental consideration ofwhat she should say, but the effect was so spontaneous and sincere thatthe four were enabled to settle down comfortably to tea, in a fewmoments, like old friends. 

"Miss Sheridan--or Norma, rather--and I have been having a perfectlydelicious talk, " said Alice. "She loves Christina Rossetti, and she knewthe 'Hound of Heaven' by heart, and she has promised to send me a newman's work that sounds delightful--what was it? Something about GeneralBooth?"

"If I haven't chattered you to death!" Norma said, penitentially. AndLeslie added: "Aunt Alice, you _do_ look tired! Not that talking poetryever would tire you!" she hastened to add, with a smile for Norma. 

"No, I'm not--or rather, I was, but I feel wonderfully!" Alice said. "Pour the tea, Kitten. What have you two little adventurers been doingwith yourselves?"

"Mrs. Dupré's party--Yvette Guilbert, " Leslie said. "She is quite toowonderful!"

"I've always wanted to see her, and I've always known I would adoreher, " Norma interpolated, dreamily. 

Alice glanced at her quickly. 

"Does she give another matinée, Leslie?"

"Two----" Leslie looked at Acton. "Is it two weeks from to-day?" shequestioned. 

"I'll send you seats for it, " Alice said, making a little note on herivory memoranda pages, as she nodded to Norma. The colour rushed intoNorma's face, and she bit her lip. 

"But, Mrs. Liggett--honestly--I truly didn't mean--I only meant----" shebegan to stammer, half laughing. Alice laid her hand upon Norma'sreassuringly. 

"My dear, you know I don't think you hinted! But I want to do it. Ican't"--Alice said, smiling--"I can't do anything for little MissAladdin here, and it gives me the greatest pleasure, now and then----"

"I want to tell you something about Mrs. Liggett, " Acton said; "she'sgot a grasping nature and a mean soul--you can see that! She's thelimit, all right!" He smiled down at her as he gave her her teacup, andLeslie laughed outright. Acton was a person of few words, but when hechose to talk, Leslie found his manner amusing. Christopher, coming upto join them fifteen minutes later, said that from the noise they madehe had supposed at least fifty persons to be in his wife's room. 

Did Norma, as she gave the master of the house her hand, have suddenmemory of all her recent absurd extravagances in his name--the games, the surmises, the wild statements that had had Chris Liggett as theirinspiration? If she did, she gave no sign of it beyond the bright flushwith which she greeted her oldest acquaintance in this group. Christopher sat down, content to be a listener and an onlooker, as hesipped his tea, but Norma saw that his wife's look of white fatigue madehim uneasy, and immediately said that she must go. 

He made no protest, but said that the car was at the door, and she mustlet him send her home. Norma agreed, and Acton asked if he and Lesliemight not use it, too. The three departed in high spirits, Alicedetaining the radiant and excited Norma long enough to exact from herthe promise of another visit soon, and to send an affectionate messageto Mrs. Sheridan from "Miss Alice. " Then they went down to the big car, an exciting and delightful experience to Norma. 

Leslie was left first, and Acton, pleading that he was already late foranother engagement, was dropped at his club. Then Norma had the car toherself, and as it smoothly flew toward the humble doorway of theSheridans, could giggle, almost aloud, in her pleasure and exhilarationat an afternoon that had gone without a single awkward minute, allpleasant, harmonious, and vaguely flattering. And the wonderful Mrs. Liggett had asked her to come soon again, and had made that delightfulsuggestion about the concert. The name of Yvette Guilbert meant littleto Norma, but the thought that Alice Liggett really wanted to hold herfriendship was nothing less than intoxicating. 

She looked out of the car, the streets were bare of snow now, there wasnot a leaf showing in the park, and the ground was dark and unpromising. But a cool, steady wind was blowing through the lingering twilight, menwere running after rolling hats, and at least the milliners' windowswere radiant with springtime bloom. Children were playing in Norma'sstreet, wrapped and muffled children, wild with joy to be out of doorsagain, and a tiny frail little moon was floating in the opal sky justabove the grim line of roofs. Norma looked up at it, and the pureblowing air touched her hot face, and her heart sang with the sheer joyof living. 

CHAPTER VII

Christopher had gone down to the door with his brother and the girls, and had sent a glance up and down the quiet, handsome block, feeling inthe moving air what Norma felt, what all the city felt--the bold, wildpromise of spring. He turned back into the house with something like asigh; Acton and Leslie in their young happiness were somehow a littlehaunting to-night. 

The butler was starting upstairs with the papers; Christopher took themfrom him, and went back to Alice's room with his eyes idly following theheadlines. The pretty apartment was somewhat disordered, and looked dulland dark in the half light. Christopher walked to a window, and pushedit open upon its railed balcony. 

"Chris!" whispered his wife's voice, thick and dry in the gloom. 

Aghast in the instant apprehension of something wrong, he sprang to hercouch, dropped to his knees, and put an arm about her. 

"Alice! What is it, my darling?"

She struggled for speech, and he could see that her face was ashen. 

"Chris--no, don't ring. Chris, _who is that girl_?"

Christopher touched the chain that flooded the couch with rosy light. Hebent in eager sympathy over his wife's relaxed form. 

"Alice, what is it?" he asked, tenderly. "Don't worry, dear, don't tryto talk too fast! Just tell Chris what frightened you----"

Alice laughed wretchedly as she detached the fingers he had pressedanxiously upon her forehead. 

"No, I'm not feverish!" she assured him, holding tight to his hand. "ButI want you to tell me, Chris, I must know--and no matter what promiseyou have given Mother--or given any one----"

"Now, now, now!" he soothed her. "I'll tell you anything, sweetheart, only don't let yourself get so excited. Just tell me what it is, Alice, and I'll do anything in the world for you, of course!"

"Chris, " she said, swallowing with a dry throat, and sitting up with anair of regaining self-control, "you must tell me. You know you can trustme, you _know_----! That girl----"

"But _what_ girl--what are you talking about, dear? Do--do try to bejust a little clearer, and calmer----"

"Who"--said Alice, with a ghastly look, sweeping the hair back from herdamp forehead--"who is that Norma Sheridan?"

"Why, I told you, dear, that I don't know, " her husband protested. "Itold you weeks ago, after your mother made that scene, the night ofHendrick's speech, that I couldn't make head or tail of it!"

"Chris"--Alice was regarding him fixedly--"you _must_ know!"

"Dearest, couldn't your mother simply wish to befriend a girl whoseparents----"

Alice flung her loosened hair back, and at her gesture and her glance atthe little carafe on her table he poured her a glass of cold water. Drinking it off, and raising herself in her cushions, she stretched herhand to touch the chair beside her, and still without a word indicatedthat he was to take it. With a face of grave concern Christopher satdown beside her, holding her hands in both his own. 

"Chris, " she said, clearly and quickly, if with occasional catches ofbreath, "the minute that girl came into the room I knew that--I knewthat _horror_ had come upon us all! I knew that she was one of us--oneof us Melroses, somehow----"

"Alice!" he said, pleadingly. 

"But Mama, " she said, with a keen look, "didn't tell you that?"

"She told me only what I told you that night, on my honour as agentleman! Alice, what makes you say what you do?"

"Ah, Chris, " his wife cried, almost frantically, "look at her! _Look_ ather! Why, her voice is Annie's, the same identical voice--she looks likemy father, like Theodore--she looks like us all! She and Leslie were somuch alike, as they sat there, in spite of the colouring, that I almostscreamed it at them! Surely--surely, you see it--everyone sees it!"

He stared at her, beginning to breathe a little quickly in his turn. 

"By George!" she heard him whisper, as if to himself. 

"Do you see it, Chris?" Alice whispered, almost fearfully. 

"But--but----" He got up and walked restlessly to the window, and cameback to sit down again. "But there's a cousinship somewhere, " he said, sensibly. "There's no reason to suppose that the thing can't beexplained. I do think you're taking this thing pretty hard, my dear. What can you possibly suppose? There might be a hundred girls----"

His voice fell. Alice was watching him expectantly. 

"Mama felt it--saw it--as I do, " she said. "You may be very sure thatMama wouldn't have almost lost her mind, as she did, unless somethinghad given her cause!"

They looked at each other in silence, in the utter silence of thelovely, cool-toned room. 

"Alice, " Chris said in a puzzled voice after awhile, "you suspect me ofkeeping something from you. But on my honour you know all that yourmother told me--all that I know!"

"Oh, Chris, " she said, with a sort of wail. "If I don't know more!"

Her husband's slow colour rose. 

"How could you know more?" he asked, bewilderedly. 

Alice was unhappily silent. 

"Chris, if I tell you what I'm afraid of--what I fear, " she said, presently, after anxious thought, "will you promise me never, never tospeak of it--never even to think of it!--if it--if it proves not to betrue?"

"I don't have to tell you that, Alice, " he said. 

"No, of course you don't--of course you don't!" she echoed with anervous laugh. "I'll tell you what I think, Chris--what has been almostdriving me mad--and you can probably tell me a thousand reasons why itcan't be so! You see, I've never understood Mama's feverish distressthese last weeks. She's been to see me, she's done what had to be doneabout Leslie's engagement, but she's not herself--you can see that!Yesterday she began to cry, almost for nothing, and when I happened tomention--or rather when I mentioned very deliberately--that MissSheridan was coming here, she almost shrieked. Well, I didn't know whatto make of it, and even then I rather wondered----

"Even then, " Alice began again, after a painful pause, and with her ownvoice rising uncontrollably, "I suspected something. But not this! Oh, Chris, if I'm wrong about this, I shall be on my knees for gratitude forthe rest of my life; I would die, I would die to have it just--just mywretched imagination!--A thing like this--to us--the Melroses--who havealways been so straight--so respected!"

"Now, Alice--now, Alice!"

"Yes, I know!" she said, quickly. "I know!" And for a moment she layback quietly, stroking his hand. "Chris, " she resumed, composedly, aftera moment, "you know the tragedy of Annie's life?"

Chris, taken by surprise, frowned. 

"Why, yes, I suppose so, " he admitted, unwillingly. 

"Chris, did it ever occur to you that she might have had a child--bythat fiend?"

Chris looked at his wife a moment, and his eyes widened, and his mouthtwitched humorously. 

"Oh, come now, Alice--come now!"

"You think it's folly!" she asked, eagerly. 

"Worse!" he answered, briefly, his eyes smiling reproach. 

Alice's whole tense body relaxed, and she stared at him with lightdawning in her eyes. 

"Well, probably it is, " she said, very simply. 

"Of course it is, " Chris said. "Now, you are dead tired, dear, and youhave let the thing mill about in your head until you can't see anythingnormally. I confess that I don't understand your mother's mysteriousnervousness, but then I am free to say that I don't by any means alwaysunderstand your mother! You remember the pearl episode, and the timethat she had Annie and Hendrick cabling from Italy--because HendrickJunior had a rash! And then there was Porter--a boy nineteen years old, and she actually had everyone guessing exactly what she felt towardhim----"

"Oh, Chris, no, she didn't! She simply felt that he was a genius, and hehadn't a penny, " Alice protested, reproachful and hurt. 

"Well, she had him there at the house until his mother came after him, and then, when he finally was sent abroad, she asked me seriously if Ithought two hundred dollars a month was enough for his musicaleducation!"

"Yes, I know!" Alice said, ruefully, shaking her head. 

"Now this comes along, " said Christopher, encouraged by the effect ofhis words, "and you begin to fret your poor little soul with all sortsof wild speculations. I wish to the Lord that your mother was a littlebit more trusting with her confidences, but when it all comes out it'llprove to be some sister of your grandfather who married a tailor orsomething, and left a line of pretty girls to work in Biretta's----"

"But, Chris, she reminded me so of Annie to-day I almost felt _sick_, "Alice said, still frightened and dubious. 

"Well, that merely shows that you're soft-hearted; it's no reflection onAnnie!" Chris said, giving her her paper, and opening his own. ButAlice did not open her paper. 

A maid came in, and moved about noiselessly setting chairs and rugs inorder. Another soft light was lighted and the little square table setbefore the fire. The cool fresh air drifted in at the half-open window, and sent a delicate breath, from Alice's great bowl of freesia lilies, through the peaceful room. The fire snapped smartly about a fresh log, and Alice's great tortoise-shell cat came to make a majestic spring intoher lap. 

"Chris--I'm so worried!" said his wife. 

"As a matter of fact, " said Christopher, quietly, after a while, "did----Annie was very ill, I know, but was there--was there any reasonto suppose that there might have been--that such a situation as to-day'smight have arisen?"

Alice looked at him with apprehension dawning afresh. 

"Oh, yes--that is, I believe so. I didn't know it then, of course. "

"I never knew that, " Christopher said, thoughtfully. 

"Well, I didn't at the time, you know. It was--of course it wassixteen--eighteen years ago, " Alice said. And in a whisper she added, "Chris, that girl is eighteen!"

Christopher pursed his lips to whistle, but made no sound, and lookedinto the fire. 

"You see I was only about thirteen or fourteen, " Alice said. "I wasgoing to Miss Bennet's school, and we were all living in the MadisonAvenue house. Papa had been dead only a year, or less, for I rememberthat Annie was eighteen, and wasn't going out much, because of mourning. Theodore had been worrying Mama to death, and had left the house then, and Mama was sending him and his wife money, I believe, but of courselots of that was kept from me. Annie was terribly wild and excitablethen, always doing reckless things; I can remember when she and BelleDuer dressed up as boys and had their pictures taken, and once they puta matrimonial advertisement in the papers--of course they were justsilly--at least that was. But then she began to rave about this manMüller----"

"The acrobat!" Christopher, who was listening intently, supplied. 

"No, dearest! He was their riding master--I suppose that isn't muchbetter, really. But he was an extremely handsome man--really stunning. Carry Winchester's mother forbade her taking any more lessons because_she_ was so wild about him, and Annie told me once that that was whyIda Burnett was popped into a boarding school. He was big, and dark, andhe had a slight foreign accent, and he was ever so much older thanAnnie--forty, at least. She began to spend all her time at the ridingclub; it used to make Mama wild--especially as Annie was so headstrongand saucy about it! Poor Mama, I remember her crying and complaining!"

"And how long did this go on?" Christopher asked. 

"Oh, weeks! Well, and then one hot day, just before Easter vacation itwas, I remember, I came home early from school with a headache, and whenI reached the upper hall I could hear Mama crying, and Annie shoutingout loud, and this Kate--this very same Kate Sheridan!--trying to quietMama, and everything in an uproar! Finally I heard Annie sobbing--I wasfrightened to death of course, and I sat down on the stairs that go upto the nursery--and I heard Annie say something about beingeighteen--and she was eighteen the very day before; and she ran by me, in her riding clothes, with the derby hat that girls used to wear then, and her hair clubbed on her neck, and she ran downstairs, and I couldhear her crying, and saying to herself: 'I'll show them; I'll showthem!' And that was the last I saw of her, " Alice finished sadly, "foralmost two years. "

"She went out?" Christopher asked. 

"Yes; she slammed the door. Mama fainted. "

"Of course!"

"Oh, Chris, " said his wife, half crying, "wasn't that enough to make anyone faint?--let alone Mama. Anyway, she was dreadfully ill, and theyrather shut me up about it, and told everyone that Annie had goneabroad. We had been living very quietly, you know, and nobody cared muchwhat Annie did, then. And she really had gone abroad, she wrote Mamafrom Montreal, and she had been married to Emil Müller in Albany. Theyhad taken a train there, and were married that same afternoon. They wentto London, and they were in Germany, and then--then it all broke up, youknow about that!"

"How much later was that?"

Alice considered. 

"It was about Christmas time. Don't you remember that I went to yourmother, and Acton and I got measles? Mama was abroad then. "

"And this Kate went with her?"

"Yes. That was--that was one of the things I was--just thinking about!Annie wrote Mama that she was very ill, in Munich, and poor Mama justflew. Müller had left her; indeed there was a woman and two quite biggirls that had a claim on him, and if Mama hadn't been so anxious toshut it all up, she might have proved that he was a bigamist--but Idon't know that she was ever sure. Judge Lee put the divorce through forAnnie, and Mama took her to the Riviera and petted her, and pulled herthrough. But all her hair came out, and for weeks they didn't think shewould live. She had brain fever. You see, Annie had had some moneywaiting for her on her eighteenth birthday, and your own father, who washer guardian, Chris, had given her the check--interest, it was, aboutseven or eight thousand dollars. And he told her to open her ownaccount, and manage her own income, from then on. And we thought--Mamaand I--that in some way Müller must have heard of it. Anyway, she neverdeposited the check, and when her money gave out he just left her. "

"But what makes you think that her illness didn't commence--or wasn'tentirely--brain fever?"

"That she might have had a baby?" Alice asked, outright. 

Christopher nodded, the point almost insufferably distasteful to him. 

"Oh, I know it!" Alice said. 

"You _know_ it?" the man echoed, almost in displeasure. 

"Yes, she told me herself! But of course that was years later. At thetime, all I knew was that Kate Sheridan came home, and came to see me atschool, and told me that Mama and Annie were very well, but that Anniehad been frightfully sick, and that Mama wouldn't come back until Anniewas much stronger. As a matter of fact, it was nearly twoyears--Theodore took me over to them a year from that following summer, and then Annie stayed with some friends in England; she was having awonderful time! But years afterward, when little Hendrick was coming, infact, she was here one day, and she seemed to feel blue, and finally Ihappened to say that if motherhood seemed so hard to a person likeherself, whose husband and whose whole family were so mad with joy overthe prospect of a baby, what on earth must it be to the poor girls whohave every reason to hate it. And she looked at me rather oddly, andsaid: 'Ah, I know what _that_ is!' Of course I guessed right away whatshe meant, and I said: 'Annie--not really!' And she said: 'Oh, yes, thatwas what started my illness. I had been so almost crazy--so blue andlonesome, and so sick with horror at the whole thing, that it allhappened too soon, the day after Mama and Kate got there, in fact!' Andthen she burst out crying and said: 'Thank God it was that way! Icouldn't have faced _that_. ' And she said that she had been toodesperately ill to realize anything, but that afterward, at Como, whenshe was much better, she asked Mama about it, and Mama said she mustonly be glad that it was all over, and try to think of it as a terribledream!"

"Well, there you are, " said Chris, "she herself says that no child wasborn!"

"Yes, but, Chris, mightn't it be that she didn't know?" Alice submitted, timidly. 

Her husband eyed her with a faint and thoughtful frown. 

"It seems to me that that is rather a fantastic theory, dear! Wherewould this child be all this time?"

"Kate" Alice said, simply. 

"Kate!" he echoed, struck. And Alice saw, with a sinking heart, that hewas impressed. After a full moment of silence he said, simply: "Youthink this is the child?"

"Chris, " his wife cried, appealingly, "I don't say I think so! But itoccurred to me that it might be. I hope, with all my soul, that youdon't think so!"

"I'm afraid, " he answered, thoughtfully, "that I do!"

Alice's eyes filled with tears, and she tightened her fingers in hiswithout speaking. 

"The idea being, " Christopher mused, "that Mrs. Sheridan brought thebaby home, and has raised her. That makes Miss Sheridan--Norma--thechild of Annie and that German blackguard!"

"I suppose so!" Alice admitted, despairingly. 

"But why has it been kept quiet all this time!"

"Well, that, " Alice said, "I don't understand. But this I _am_ sure of:Annie hasn't the faintest suspicion of it! She supposes that the wholething ended with her terrible illness. She was only eighteen, andyounger and more childish even than Leslie is! Oh, Chris, " said Alice, her eyes watering, "isn't it horrible! To come to us, of all people!Will everybody know?"

"Well, it all depends. It's a nasty sort of business, but I supposethere's no help for it. How much does Hendrick know?"

"About Annie? Oh, everything that she does; I know that. Annie told him, and Judge Lee told him about Müller and the divorce, or nullification, or whatever it was! There was nothing left unexplained there. But if thechild lived, she didn't know that--only Mama did, and Kate. Oh, poorAnnie, it would kill her to have all that raked up now! Why Kate kept itsecret all these years----"

"I must say, " Christopher exclaimed, "that----By George, I hate thissort of thing! No help for it, I suppose. But if it gets out we shallall be in for a sweet lot of notoriety. We shall just have to make termswith these Sheridans, and keep our mouths shut. I didn't get the ideathat they were holding your mother up. I believe it's more that shewants justice done; she would, you know, for the sake of the family. Thegirl herself, this Norma, evidently hasn't been raised on anyexpectations--probably knows nothing about it!"

"Oh, I'm sure of that!" Alice agreed, eagerly. "And if she has Melroseblood in her, you may be sure she'll play the game. But, Chris, I can'tstand the uncertainty. Mama's coming to have luncheon with me to-morrow, and I'm going to ask her outright. And if this Norma is really--what wefear, what do you think we ought to do?"

"Well, it's hard to say. It's all utterly damnable, " Christopher said, distressed. "And Annie, who let us all in for it, gets off scot free! Iwish, since she let it go so long, that your mother had forgotten itentirely. But, as it is, this child isn't, strictly speaking, illegitimate. There was a marriage, and some sort of divorce, whetherMüller deceived Annie as to his being a bachelor or not!"

A maid stood in the doorway. 

"Mrs. Melrose, Mrs. Liggett. "

"Oh, " Alice said, in an animated tone of pleasure, "ask her to comeupstairs!" But the eyes she turned to her husband were full ofapprehension. "Chris, here's Mama now! Shall we----? Would you dare?"

"Use your own judgment!" he had time to say hastily, before his wife'smother came in. 

CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Melrose frequently came in to join Alice for dinner, especiallywhen she was aware, as to-night, that Christopher had an eveningengagement. She was almost always sure of finding Annie alone, andenjoying the leisurely confidences that were crowded out of the daytimehours. 

She had had several weeks of nervous illness now, but looked betterto-night, looked indeed her handsome and comfortable self, as shereceived Chris's filial kiss on her forehead, and bent to embrace herdaughter. Freda carried away her long fur-trimmed cloak, and she pushedher veil up to her forehead, and looked with affectionate concern fromhusband to wife. 

"Now, Chris, I'm spoiling things! But I thought Carry Pope told me thatyou were going to her dinner before the opera!"

"I'm due there at eight, " he said, reassuringly. "And by the same token, I ought to be dressing! But Alice and I have been loafing along herecomfortably, and I'd give about seven dollars to stay at home with mywife!"

"He always says that!" Alice said, smilingly. "But he always has a nicetime; and then the next night he plays over the whole score, and tellsme who was there, and so I have it, too!"

Chris had walked to the white mantelpiece, and was lighting acigarette. 

"Alice had that little protégée of yours here, to-day, Aunt Marianna, "he said, casually. 

There was no mistaking the look of miserable and fearful interest thatdeepened instantly in the older woman's eyes. 

"Miss Sheridan?" she said. 

"Mama, " Alice exclaimed, suddenly, clasping a warm hand over hermother's trembling one, and looking at her with all love andreassurance, "you know how Chris and I love you, don't you?"

Tears came into Mrs. Melrose's eyes. 

"Of course I do, lovey, " she faltered. 

"Mama, you know how we would stand behind you--how anxious we are toshare whatever's worrying you!" Alice went on, pleadingly. "Can'tyou--I'm not busy like Annie, or young like Leslie, and Chris is yourman of business, after all! Can't you tell us about it? Two heads--threeheads, " said Alice, smiling through a sudden mist of tears, "are betterthan one!"

"Why, " Mrs. Melrose stammered, with a rather feeble attempt atlightness, "have I been acting like a person with something on her mind?It's nothing, children, nothing at all. Don't bother your dear, generoushearts about it another second!"

And she looked from one to another with a gallant smile. 

Chris eyed his wife with a faint, hopeless movement of the head, andAlice correctly interpreted it to mean that the situation was worseinstead of better. 

"You remember the night you sent for me, some weeks ago, Aunt Marianna?"he ventured. Mrs. Melrose moistened her lips, and swallowed with a drythroat, looking at him with a sort of alert defiance. 

"I confess that I was all upset that night, " she admitted, bravely. "Andto tell you children the truth, Kate Sheridan coming upon me sounexpectedly----"

"Joseph quite innocently told me that evening that you had anticipatedher coming!" Christopher said, quietly, as she paused. 

"Joseph was mistaken!" Mrs. Melrose said, warmly, with red colourbeginning to burn in her soft, faded old face. "Kate had been associatedwith a terrible time in my life, " she went on, almost angrily. "And itwas quite natural--or at least it seems so to me!--I don't know whatother people would feel, but to _me_----But what are you twocross-examining me for?" she interrupted herself to ask, with a suddenrush of tears, as Chris looked unconvinced, and Alice still watched hersorrowfully. "Little do you know, either of you, what I have beenthrough----"

"Mama, " entreated Alice, earnestly, "will you answer me one question? Ipromise you that I won't ask another. You know how anxious we are onlyto help you, to make everything run smoothly. You know what the familyis--to us. Don't you _see_ we are?" Alice asked suddenly, seeing thatthe desire for sympathy and advice was rapidly breaking up the ice thathad chilled her mother's heart for long weeks. "Won't you tell me justthis--it's about Annie, Mama. When she was so ill in Munich. Was--washer little baby born there?"

"Yes!" Mrs. Melrose whispered, with fascinated eyes fixed on herdaughter's face. 

Alice, ashen faced, fell back against her pillows without speaking. 

"Kate Sheridan brought the child home, " Christopher stated, rather thanasked, very quietly. His mother-in-law looked at him apathetically. 

"Kate--yes!"

"Does Annie know it, Mama?" Alice whispered, after a silence. 

"Annie? Oh, my God, no!" The mother's voice rose almost to a wail. "Oh, Chris--Alice--if you love me, Annie must not know! So proud, so happy;and she would never bear it! I know her--I know her! She would killherself before----"

"Darling, you must be quiet!" Alice said, commandingly. "No one shallknow it. What we do for this child shall be done for--well, our cousin. Chris will help you manage everything, and no one shall ever suspect itfrom me. It will all work out right, you'll see. Other people aren'twatching us, as we always think they are; it's nobody's business if acousin of ours suddenly appears in the family. No one would dare whisperone word against the Melroses. Only be quiet, Mama darling, and don'tworry. Now that we know it, we will never, never allude to it again, will we, Chris? You can trust us. "

Mrs. Melrose had sunk back into her chair; her face was putty-coloured, beads of water stood on her forehead. 

"Oh, the relief--the relief!" she kept whispering, as she clung toAlice's hand. "Alice, for the sake of the name--dear--for all oursakes!----"

"Now, if you two girls will take my advice!" Christopher suggested, cheerfully, "you'll stop talking about all this, and let it wait untilto-morrow. Then we'll consult, and see just what proposition we can maketo little Miss Sheridan, and what's best to be done. Alice, why don'tyou go over that wedding list of Leslie's with your mother? And ring fordinner. I'm going to dress. "

"We will!" Alice agreed, sensibly. "As a family we've always facedthings courageously. We're fighters--we Melroses--and we'll standtogether!"

CHAPTER IX

This was on Friday, and it was on the following Monday that Wolf andRose Sheridan came home to find news awaiting them. The day before hadbeen surprisingly sunny and sweet, and Wolf and Harry Redding had takenthe girls to Newark, where Wolf's motor-car had been stored all winter, and they had laughed, and joked, and chattered all the way like thecare-free young things they were. Mrs. Sheridan, urged to join them, hadpleaded business: she had promised old Mrs. Melrose to go and see her. So she had left them at the church door, after Mass, and they had gonetheir way rejoicing in sunshine and warm breezes, a part of thestreaming holiday crowds that were surging and idling along the dryingpavements. 

Wolf was neither of an age nor type for piety, but to-day he had prayedthat this little Norma kneeling beside him, with the youth and fire andaudacity shining in her face even while she prayed, might turn that samemysterious and solemn smile upon him again some day, as his wife. Andall day long, as she danced along by his side, as she eagerly debatedthe question of luncheon, as she enslaved the aged coloured man in thegarage, the new thrill of which he had only recently become sopleasantly conscious, stirred in his heart, and whatever she touched, orsaid, or looked, was beautified almost beyond recognition. 

He had thought, coming home Monday night, that he and she would take alittle walk, in the lingering dusk of the cool spring evening, andperhaps see the twelfth installment of "The Stripe-Faced Terror, " whichwas playing in the near-by moving-picture house. 

But he found her in a new mood, almost awed with an unexpected ecstasyin which he had no part--would never have a part. She and Aunt Kate hadbeen to see Mrs. Melrose again. 

"And, Wolf, what do you think! They want me to go live there--with theLiggetts, to help with lists and things for Leslie's wedding. Mrs. Melrose kissed me, Wolf, and said--didn't she, Aunt Kate?--that I musttry to feel that I belong to them; and she was so sweet--she put her armabout me, and said that I must have some pretty clothes! And the car iscoming for me on Wednesday; isn't it like a dream? Oh, Rose, if I'mthankful enough! And I'm to come back here for dinner once a week, andof course you and Rose are to come there! Oh, Rose, but I wish it was usboth--I wish it was you, you're so good!"

"I wouldn't have it, Norma, " Rose said, in her honest, pleasant voice. "You know I'd feel like a fool. "

"Oh, but I am so happy!" And Norma, who had gotten into Aunt Kate's lap, as the marvellous narrative progressed, dug her face into Aunt Kate'smotherly soft shoulder, and tightened her arms about her neck, and crieda little, for sheer joy. 

But Wolf said almost nothing, and when he went to wash his hands forsupper he went slowly, and found himself staring absently at the towel, and stopping short in the hall, still staring. He seemed himself atdinner, and his mother, at first watching him anxiously, could resumeher meal, and later, could fall asleep, in the confident hope that itwould all come right, after all. But Wolf slipped from the house afterawhile, and walked the streets until almost dawn. 

It was almost dawn, too when the old mistress of the Melrose mansionfell asleep. She had called Regina more than once, she had tried theeffect of reading, and of hot milk, and of a cold foot-bath. But stillthe crowded, over-furnished room was filled with ghosts, and still shewatched them, pleaded with them, blamed them. 

"I've done all I could!" she whispered at last, into the heavy darkbefore the dawn. "It isn't my fault if they think she's Annie's child!I've never said so--it was Alice and Chris who said so. Annie and Lesliewill never know anything more, and the girl herself need never knowanything at all. Perhaps, as Kate said yesterday, it will all work outright, this way! At least it's all we can do now!"

CHAPTER X

So it came about quite naturally that the little unknown cousin of theMelroses was made a familiar figure in their different family groups, and friends of the house grew accustomed to finding pretty little NormaSheridan lunching with Leslie, reading beside Alice's couch in the latesummer afternoons, or amusing and delighting the old head of the familyin a hundred charming ways. Norma called Mrs. Melrose "Aunt Marianna"now, as Chris and Acton did. She did not understand the miracle, itremained a marvel still, but it was enough that it continued to deepenand spread with every enchanted hour. 

She had longed--what girl in Biretta's Bookstore did not?--to be rich, and to move and have her being "in society. " And now she had her wish, ahundred times fulfilled, and of course she was utterly and absolutelyhappy. 

That is, except for the momentary embarrassments and jealousies anduncertainties, and for sometimes being bored, she thought that she mightconsider herself happy. And there were crumpled rose-leaves everywhere!she reminded herself sternly. She--Norma Sheridan--could spend moremoney upon the single item of shoes, for example, than Miss Smith, headof Biretta's Bookshop, could earn in a whole long year of hot months andcold, of weary days and headachy days. 

That part of it was "fun", she admitted to herself. The clothes werefun, the boxes and boxes and boxes that came home for her, thepetticoats and stockings, the nightgowns heavy with filet lace, and therough boots for tramping and driving, and the silk and satin slippersfor the house. Nothing disappointing there! Norma never would forget theecstasies of those first shopping trips with Aunt Marianna. Did she wantthem?--the beaded bag, the woolly scarf, the little saucy hat, were allto be sent to Miss Sheridan, please. Norma lost her breath, and laughed, and caught it again and lost it afresh. They had so quickly dropped thelittle pretence that she was to make herself useful, these wonderful andgenerous Melroses; they had so soon forgotten everything except that shewas Leslie's age, and to be petted and spoiled as if she had beenanother Leslie!

And now, after more than half a year, she knew that they liked her; thatall of them liked her in their varying degrees. Old Mrs. Melrose andAlice--Mrs. Christopher Liggett--were most warmly her champions, perhaps, but Leslie was too unformed a character to be definitelyhostile, and the little earlier jealousies and misunderstandings wereblown away long ago, and even the awe-inspiring Annie had shown a realfriendliness of late. Acton Liggett and Hendrick von Behrens were alwayskind and admiring, and Norma had swiftly captivated Annie's little boys. But of them all, she still liked Chris Liggett the best, and feltnearest Chris even when he scolded her, or hurt her feelings with hisfrank advice. And she knew that Chris thoroughly liked her, in spite ofthe mistakes that she was continually making, and the absurd ways inwhich her ignorance and strangeness still occasionally betrayed her. 

It had been a time full of mistakes, of course. Chris often told herthat she had more brains in her little finger than most of the girls ofher set had in their whole bodies, but that had not saved her. If shewas pretty, they were all pretty, too. If she wore beautiful clothes, they wore clothes just as beautiful, and with more assurance. If her witwas quick, and her common sense and human experience far greater thantheirs, these were just the qualities they neither needed nor trusted. They spoke their own language, the language of youthful arrogance andignorance, the language of mutual compliments and small personalities, and Norma could not speak this tongue any more than she could join themwhen they broke easily into French or German or Italian. She could ride, because she was not afraid of the mild-mannered cobs that were used atthe riding school and in the park, but she knew little of correctposture and proper handling of reins. She could swim, as Wolf had taughther, in the old river years ago, but she knew nothing of the terms andaffectations of properly taught swimming. When she went to see AuntKate, she was almost ashamed of the splendour of her clothing and theutter luxury of the life she led, but with Leslie and her friends sheoften felt herself what perhaps they thought her, an insignificantlittle poor relation of the Melroses, who had appeared from nobody knewwhere, and might return unchallenged at any moment to her originalobscurity. 

This phase of the new life was disappointing, and Norma realized herselfthat she spent a quite disproportionate amount of time in thinking aboutit. Wasn't it enough, she would ask herself impatiently, to be one ofthem at all, to see one's picture in the fashionable weeklies, as amember of the family, at the Liggett-Melrose wedding; to have clothesand motor-cars, and a bedroom that was like a picture; to know Newportat first-hand; to have cruised for a week in the Craigies' yacht, andhave driven to Quebec and back in the Von Behrens' car? A year ago, shereminded herself, it would have seemed Paradise to have had even aweek's freedom from the bookshop; now, she need never step intoBiretta's again!

But it was not enough, and Norma would come impatiently to the end ofher pondering with the same fretted sense of dissatisfaction. It was notenough to be tremulously praised by old Aunt Marianna, to be joked byChris, greeted by Alice, his wife, with a friendly smile. Norma wantedto belong to this life, to be admired and sought by Leslie, rather thanendured; to have the same easy familiarity with Duers, and Alexanders, and Rutgers that Leslie had. 

As was quite natural, she and Leslie had eyed each other, from the verybeginning, somewhat as rivals. But Leslie, even then preparing for hermarriage, had so obviously held all the advantages, that her vagueresentment and curiosity concerning the family's treatment of theunknown newcomer were brief. If Aunt Alice liked Norma to come in andtalk books and write notes, if Chris chose to be gallant, if Grandmalavished an unusual affection upon this new protégée, well, it robbedLeslie of nothing, after all. 

But with Norma it was different. She was brought into sharp contact withanother girl, only slightly her senior, who had everything that this newturn of fortune had given Norma herself, and a thousand times more. Norma saw older women, the important and influential matrons of thesocial world, paying court to the promised wife of Acton Liggett. Normaknew that while Alice and Chris were always attentive to her own littleaffairs, the solving of Leslie's problems they regarded as their ownsacred obligation. Norma had hours and hours of this new enchantingleisure to fill; she could be at anybody's beck and call. But Leslie, she saw, was only too busy. Everybody was claiming Leslie; she wasneeded in forty places at once; she must fly from one obligation toanother, and be thanked for sparing just a few minutes here and therefrom her crowded days. 

Mrs. Melrose had immediately made Norma an allowance, an allowance sobig that when Norma first told Aunt Kate about it, it was with a senseof shame. Norma had her check-book, and need ask nobody for spendingmoney. More than that her generous old patron insisted that she use allthe family charge accounts freely: "You mustn't think of paying in anyshop!" said Aunt Marianna and Aunt Alice, earnestly. 

But Leslie was immensely rich in her own right. The hour in which Normarealized this was one of real wretchedness. Chris was her innocentinformant. 

It was only two or three days before the wedding, a warm day of rustlingleaves and moving shadows, in late May. The united families were stillin town, but plans for escape to the country were made for the very dayafter the event. Norma had been fighting a little sense of hurt pridebecause she was not to be included among Leslie's wedding attendants. She knew that Aunt Marianna had suggested it to Leslie, some weeksbefore, and that the bride had quite justifiably reminded hergrandmother that the eight maids, the special maid and matron of honour, and the two little pages, had all been already asked to perform theirlittle service of affection, and that a readjustment now would bedifficult. So Norma had been excluded from the luncheons, thediscussions of frocks and bouquets, and the final exciting rehearsals inthe big Park Avenue church. 

She had chanced to be thinking of all these things on the day when Chrismade a casual allusion to "needing" Leslie. 

"The poor kid has got a stupid morning coming to-morrow, I'm afraid!" hehad said, adding, in answer to Norma's raised eyebrows, "Business. Shehas to sign some papers, and alter her will--and I want all that donebefore they go away!"

"Has Leslie a will?" Norma had asked. 

"My child, what did you suppose she had? Leslie inherited practicallyall of her Grandfather Melrose's estate. At least, her father, Theodore, did, and Leslie gets it direct through him. Of course your Aunt Anniegot her slice, and my wife hers, but the bulk was left to the son. PoorTeddy! he didn't get much out of it. But during her minority theexecutors--of which I happen to be one--almost doubled it for Leslie. And to-morrow Judge Lee and I have got to go over certain matters withher. "

He had been idling at the piano, while Alice dozed in the heat, andNorma played with a magazine. Now he had turned back to his music, andNorma had apparently resumed her reading. But she really had been shakenby a storm of passionate jealousy. 

Jealousy is in its nature selfish, and the old Norma of Aunt Kate'slittle group had not been a selfish girl. But Norma had had a few weeksnow of a world governed by a different standard. There was no necessityhere, none of the pure beauty of sacrifice and service andinsufficiency. This was a world of superfluities, a standard of excess. To have merely meals, clothing, comfort, and ease was not enough here. All these must be had in superabundance, and she was the best woman andthe happiest who had gowns she could not wear, jewels lying idle, moneystored away in banks, and servants standing about uselessly for hours, that the momentary needs of them might be instantly met. 

The poison of this creed had reached Norma, in spite of herself. She wasyoung, and she had always been beloved in her own group for what shehonestly gave of cheer and service and friendship. It hurt her thatnobody needed what she could give now, and she hated the very memory ofLeslie's wedding. 

But when that was over, Mrs. Melrose had taken her to Newport, whitherAlice was carefully moved every June. Leslie was gone now, and Normafree from pricking reminders of her supremacy, and as old friends ofMrs. Melrose began to include her in the summer's merrymaking, she hadsome happy times. But even here the cloven hoof intruded. 

Norma had always imagined this group as being full of friendly women andadmiring men, as offering her a hundred friendships where the old lifehad offered one. She discovered slowly, and with pained surprise, thatalthough there were plenty of girls, they were not especially anxiousfor intimacy with her, and that the men she met were not, somehow, "real. " They were absorbed in amusement, polo and yachting, they movedabout a great deal, and they neither had, nor desired to have, anygenuine work or interest in life. She began to see Leslie's wisdom inmaking an early and suitable marriage. As a matron, Leslie wasestablished; she could entertain, she had dignified duties andinterests, and while Norma felt awkward and bashful in asking young mento dine with Aunt Marianna, Acton brought his friends to his home, andLeslie had her girl friends there, and the whole thing was infinitelysimpler and pleasanter. 

CHAPTER XI

Norma had indeed chanced to make one girl friend, and one of whom Leslieand Alice, and even Annie, heartily approved. Caroline, theseventeen-year-old daughter of the Peter Craigies, was not a débutanteyet, but she would be the most prominent, because the richest, of themall next winter. Caroline was a heavy-lidded, slow-witted girl, whosechief companions in life had been servants, foreign-born governesses, and music-masters. Norma had been seated next to her at theinternational tennis tournament, and had befriended the squirming andbashful Caroline from sheer goodness of heart. They had criticized theplayers, and Caroline had laughed the almost hysteric, shaken laugh thatso worried her mother, and had blurted confidences to Norma in herchildish way. 

The next day there had been an invitation for Norma to lunch withCaroline, and Mrs. Von Behrens had promptly given another luncheon forboth girls. Norma was pleased, for a few weeks, with her first socialconquest, but after that Caroline became a dead weight upon her. Shehated the flattery, the inanities, the utter dulness of the greatCraigie mansion, and she began to have a restless conviction that timespent with Caroline was time lost. 

The friendship had cost her dear, too. Norma hated, even months later toremember just what she had paid for it. 

In August a letter from Rose had reached her at Newport, announcingRose's approaching marriage. Harry Redding's sister Mary was engaged toa most satisfactory young man of Italian lineage, one Joe Popini, andMrs. Redding would hereafter divide her time between the households ofher daughter and her son. Harry, thus free to marry, had persuaded Roseto wait no longer; the event was to be on a Monday not quite two weeksahead, and Norma was please, _please_, PLEASE to come down as soon asshe could. 

Norma had read this letter with a sensation of pain at her heart. Shefelt so far away from them nowadays; she felt almost a certainreluctance to dovetail this life of softness and perfume and amusementin upon the old life. But she would go. She would go, of course!

And then she had suddenly remembered that on the Monday before Rose'swedding, the Craigies' splendid yacht was to put to sea for a four- orfive-days' cruise, and that Caroline had asked her to go--the only otheryoung person besides the daughter of the house. And great persons weregoing, visiting nobility from England, a young American Croesus and hiswife, a tenor from the Metropolitan. Annie had been delighted with thisinvitation; even Leslie, just returned from California and Hawaii, hadexpressed an almost surprised satisfaction in the Craigies'friendliness. 

If they got back Friday night, then Norma could go down to the cityearly Saturday morning, and have two days with Rose and Aunt Kate. Butif the yacht did not return until Saturday--well, even then there wouldbe time. She and Rose could get through a tremendous lot of talking intwenty-four hours. And the voyage certainly would not be prolonged overSaturday, for had not Mrs. Craigie said, in Norma's hearing, thatSaturday was the very latest minute to which she could postpone themeeting for the big charity lawn party?

So Norma and the enslaved Caroline continued to plan for their sea trip, and Norma commissioned Chris to order Rose's wedding present atGorham's. 

Mrs. Von Behrens had been a trifle distant with the newcomer in thefamily until now, but the day before the cruise began she extended justa little of her royal graciousness toward Norma. Like Leslie, Normaadmired her Aunt Annie enormously, and hungered for her most casualword. 

"You've plenty of frocks, Kiddie?" asked Annie. "One uses them up at therate of about three a day!"

"Oh!"--Norma widened her innocent eyes--"I've a wardrobe trunk full ofthem: white skirts and white shoes and hats!"

"Well, I didn't suppose you had them tied in a handkerchief!" Annie hadresponded, with her quiet smile. "See if that fits you!"

They had been up in Mrs. Von Behrens's big bedroom, where that lady waslooking at a newly arrived box of gowns. "That" was the frail, embroidered coat of what Norma thought the prettiest linen suit she hadever seen. 

"It's charming on you, you little slender thing, " Annie had said. "Theskirt will be too long; will you pin it, Keating? And see that it goesat once to my mother's house. "

Keating had pinned, admired. And Norma, turning herself before themirror, with her eyes shy with pleasure and gratitude, had known thatshe was gaining ground. 

So they had started radiantly on the cruise. But after the first fewmiraculous hours of gliding along beneath the gay awnings that had allbeen almost astonishingly disappointing, too. Caroline, to begin with, was a dreadful weight upon her young guest. Caroline for breakfast, luncheon, and dinner; Caroline retiring and rising, became almosthateful. Caroline always wanted to do something, when Norma could havedreamed and idled in her deck chair by the hour. It must be deck golf ordeck tennis, or they must go up and tease dignified and courteousCaptain Burns, "because he was such an old duck, " or they must harassone or two of the older people into bridge. Norma did not play bridgewell, and she hated it, and hated Caroline's way of paying for herlosses almost more than paying them herself. 

Norma could not lie lazily with her book, raising her eyes to theexquisite beauty of the slowly tipping sea, revelling in coolness andairiness, because Caroline, fussing beside her, had never read a bookthrough in her life. The guest did not know, even now, that Caroline hadbeen a mental problem for years, that Caroline's family had consultedgreat psycho-analysts about her, and had watched the girl'sself-centredness, her odd slyness, her hysteric emotions, with deepconcern. She did not know, even now, that the Cragies were anxious toencourage this first reaching out, in Caroline, toward a member of herown sex, and that her fancies for members of the opposite sex--forseverely indifferent teachers, for shocked and unresponsivechauffeurs--were among the family problems, a part of the girl'sunfortunate under-development. Caroline's family was innocentlysurprised to realize that her mind had not developed under the care ofmaids who were absorbed in their own affairs, and foreigners who wouldnot have been free to attend her had they not been impecunious andunsuccessful in more lucrative ways. They had left her to Mademoisellesand Fräuleins quite complacently, but they did not wish her to be likethese too-sullen or too-vivacious ladies. 

So they welcomed her friendship with Norma, and Caroline's passionatedesire to be with her friend was not to find any opposition on the partof her own family. Little Miss Sheridan had an occasional kindly wordfrom Caroline's mother, a stout woman, middle-aged at thirty-five, andgood-natured smiles from Caroline's father, a well-groomed young man. And socially, this meant that the Melroses' young protégée was made. 

But Norma did not realize all this. She only knew that all the charm andbeauty of the yacht were wasted on her. Everyone ate too much, talkedtoo much, played, flirted, and dressed too much. The women seldom madetheir appearance until noon; in the afternoons there was bridge untilsix, and much squabbling and writing of checks on the forward deck, withiced drinks continually being brought up from the bar. At six the womenloitered off to dress for dinner, but the men went on playing foranother half hour. The sun sank in a blaze of splendour; the wonderfultwilight fell; but the yacht might have been boxed up in an armoury forall that her passengers saw of the sea. 

After the elaborate dinner, with its ices and hot rolls, its warm winesand chilled champagne, cards began again, and unless the ocean was sostill that they might dance, bridge continued until after midnight. 

Norma's happiest times had been when she arose early, at perhaps seven, and after dressing noiselessly in their little bathroom, crept upstairswithout waking Caroline. Sunshine would be flooding the ocean, orperhaps the vessel would be nosing her way through a luminous fog--butit was always beautiful. The decks, drying in the soft air, would beordered, inviting, deserted. Great waves of smooth water would flowevenly past, curving themselves with lessening ripples into the greateven circle of the sea. A gentle breeze would stir the leaves of thepotted plants on the deck and flap the fringes of the awnings. 

Norma, hanging on the railing, would look down upon a group of maids andstewards laughing and talking on the open deck below. These were happy, she would reflect, animated by a thousand honest emotions that nevercrept to the luxurious cabins above. They would be waiting forbreakfast, all freshly aproned and brushed, all as pleased with the_Seagirl_ as if they had been her owners. 

On the fifth day, Friday, she had been almost sick with longing to hearsome mention of going back. Surely--surely, she reasoned, they had allsaid that they must get back on Friday night! If the plan had changed, Norma had determined to ask them to run into harbour somewhere, and puther on shore. She was so tired of Caroline, so tired of wasting time, soheadachy from the heavy meals and lack of exercise!

Late on Friday afternoon some idle remark of her hostess had assured herthat the yacht would not make Greble light until Monday. They wereploughing north now, to play along the Maine coast; the yachting partywas a great success, and nobody wanted to go home. 

Norma, goaded out of her customary shyness, had pleaded her cousin'smarriage. Couldn't they run into Portland--or somewhere?--and let her godown by train? But Caroline had protested most affectionately andnoisily against this, and Caroline's mother said sweetly that shecouldn't think of letting Norma do that alone--Annie von Behrens wouldnever forgive her! However, she would speak to Captain Burns, and seewhat could be done. Anyway, Mrs. Craigie had finished, with hercomfortable laugh, Norma had only to tell her cousin that she was outwith friends on their yacht, and they had been delayed. Surely that wasexcuse enough for any one?

It was with difficulty that Norma had kept the tears out of her eyes. She had not wanted an excuse to stay away from Rose's wedding. Her hearthad burned with shame and anger and helplessness. She could hardlybelieve, crying herself to sleep on Friday night, that two whole dayswere still to spare before Monday, and that she was helpless to usethem. Her mind worked madly, her thoughts rushing to and fro with adesperation worthy an actual prisoner. 

On Saturday evening, after a day of such homesickness andheavy-heartedness as she had never known before in her life, she hadrealized that they were in some port, lying a short half mile fromshore. 

It was about ten o'clock, warm and star-lighted; there was no moon. Norma had slipped from the deck, where Caroline was playing bridge, andhad gone to the lowered gang-plank. Captain Burns was there, going overwhat appeared to be invoices, with the head steward. 

"Captain, " Norma had said, her heart pounding, "can't you put me onshore? I must be in New York to-morrow--it's very important! If I get acoat, will you let me go in when you go?"

He had measured her with his usual polite, impersonal gaze. 

"Miss Sheridan, I really could not do it, Miss! If it was a telegram, orsomething of that sort----But if anything was to happen to you, Miss, itwould be--it really would be most unfortunate!"

Norma had stood still, choking. And in the starlight he had seen theglitter of tears in her eyes. 

"Couldn't you put it to Mrs. Craigie, Miss? I'm sure she'd sendsomeone--one of the maids----"

But Norma shook her head. It would anger Caroline, and perhapsCaroline's mother, and Annie, too, to have her upset the cruise by herown foolish plans. There was no hope of her hostess's consent. What!--send a girl of eighteen down to New York for dear knows whatfanciful purpose, without a hint from parent or guardian? Mrs. Craigieknew the modern girl far too well for that, even if it had not beenpersonally extremely inconvenient to herself to spare a maid. They wererather short of maids, for two or three of them had been quite ill. 

The launch had put off, with Captain Burns in the stern. Norma had stoodwatching it, with her heart of lead. Oh, to be running away--flying--onthe train--in the familiar streets! They could forgive her later--ornever----

"Norma, aren't you naughty?" Caroline had interrupted her thoughts, andhad slipped a hand through her arm. "Buoso is going to sing--do come in!My dear, you know that last hand? Well, we made it----!"

The next two days were the slowest, the hardest, the bitterest ofNorma's life. She felt that nobody had ever had to bear so aching aheart as hers, as the most beautiful yacht in the world skimmed over theblue ocean, and the sun shone down on her embroidered linen suit, andher white shoes, and the pearl ring that Caroline had given her for herbirthday. 

What were they doing at Aunt Kate's? What were they saying as the hourswent by? At what stage was the cake--and the gown? Was Rose really to bemarried to-morrow--to-day?

In New Brunswick she had managed to send a long wire, full of thedisappointment and affection and longing she truly felt, and after thatshe had been happier. But it was a very subdued little Norma who hadcome quietly into Aunt Kate's kitchen three weeks later, and hadrelieved her over-charged heart with a burst of tears on Aunt Kate'sshoulder. 

Aunt Kate had been kind, kind as she always was to the adoredfoster-child. And Norma had stayed to dinner, and made soft and penitenteyes at Wolf until the agonized resolutions of the past lonely monthshad all melted out of his heart again, and they had all gone over toRose's, for five minutes of kissing and crying, before the big car cameto carry Norma away. 

So the worst of that wound was healed, and life could become bright andpromising to Norma once more. Autumn was an invigorating season, anyway, full of hope and enchantment, and Caroline Craigie, by what Norma feltto be a special providence, was visiting her grandmother in Baltimorefor an indefinite term. The truth was that there was a doctor therewhose advice was deemed valuable to Caroline, but Norma did not knowthat. Norma did not know the truth, either, about Mrs. Von Behrens'ssudden graciousness toward her, but it made her happy. Annie had becomefriendly and hospitable toward the newcomer in the family for only onereason. As a social dictator, she was accustomed to be courted andfollowed by scores of women who desired her friendship for the prestigeit gave them. Annie was extremely autocratic in this respect, and couldsnub, chill, and ignore even the most hopeful aspirants to her favour, with the ease of long practice. It made no difference to Annie thatdazzling credentials were produced, or that past obscurity was more thanobliterated by present glory. 

"One truly must be firm, " Annie frequently said. "It devolves upon a fewof us, as an actual duty, to see that society is maintained in its truespirit. Let the bars down once----!"

Norma, a negligible factor in Annie's life when she first appeared, hadquite innocently become a problem during that first summer. While not aMelrose, she was a member of the Melrose family, making her home withone of the daughters of the house. Annie might ignore Norma, but therewere plenty of women, and men, too, who saw in the girl a valuablesocial lever. To become intimate with little Miss Sheridan meant thatone might go up to her, at teas and dinners, while she was with Mrs. Melrose, or young Mrs. Liggett, or even Mrs. Von Behrens herself, in acasual, friendly manner that indicated, to a watching world, acomfortable footing with the family. Norma was consequently selectedfor social attention. 

Annie saw this immediately, and when all the families were settled intown again, she decided to take Norma's social training in hand, as shehad done Leslie's, and make sure that no undesirable cockle was sownamong the family fields. She would have done exactly the same if Normahad been the least attractive of girls, but Norma fancied that her ownqualities had won Annie's reluctant friendship, and was accordinglypleased. 

CHAPTER XII

Eight months later, in the clear sunshine of a late autumn morning, aslender young woman came down the steps of the Melrose house, after anhour's call on the old mistress, and turned briskly toward Fifth Avenue. In figure, in carriage, and even in the expression of her charming andanimated face, she was different from the girl who had come to that samehouse to make a call with Aunt Kate, on the day after the big blizzard, yet it was the same Norma Sheridan who nodded a refusal to the driver ofthe big motor-car that was waiting, and set off by herself for her walk. 

The old Norma, straight from Biretta's Bookshop, had been pretty inplain serge and shabby fur. But this Norma--over whose soft thick beltedcoat a beautiful silver-fox skin was linked, whose heavy, ribbed silkhose disappeared into slim, flat, shining pumps that almost caressed theslender foot, whose dark hair had the lustre that comes from intelligentcare, and whose handsome little English hat was the only one of itsspecial cut in the world--was a conspicuously attractive figure even ina world of well-groomed girls, and almost deserved to be catalogued as abeauty. From the hat to the shoes she was palpably correct, and Normaknew, and never could quite sufficiently revel in the knowing, that theblouse and the tailored skirt that were under the coat were correct, too, and that under blouse and skirt were cobwebby linens and perfumedribbons and sheerest silks that were equally perfect in their way. Leslie's bulldog, pulling on his strap, kept her moving rapidly, andgirl and dog exacted from almost all the passers-by that tribute ofglances to which Norma was now beginning to be accustomed. 

She was walking to Mrs. Von Behrens's after an unusually harmoniousluncheon with old Mrs. Melrose. This was one of Norma's happy times, andshe almost danced in the crisp November air that promised snow even now. Leslie had asked her to come informally to tea; Annie had sent a messagethat she wished to see Norma; and Alice, who, like all invalids, haddark moods of which only her own household was aware, had been hernicest self for a week. Then Christopher was coming home to-night, andNorma had missed him for the three weeks he had been away, duck-shootingin the South, and liked the thought that he was homeward bound. 

She found Leslie with Annie to-day, in Annie's big front bedroom. Lesliewas in a big chair by the bed where Annie, with some chalky preparationpasted in strips on those portions of her face that were most inclinedto wrinkle, was lying flat. Her hair, rubbed with oils and packed intight bands, was entirely invisible, and over her arms, protruding froma gorgeous oriental wrap, loose chamois gloves were drawn. Annie hadbeen to a luncheon, and was to appear at two teas, a dinner, and thetheatre, and she was making the most of an interval at home. She lookedindescribably hideous, as she stretched a friendly hand toward Norma, and nodded toward a chair. 

"Look at the child's colour--Heavens! what it is to be young, " saidAnnie. "Sit down, Norma. How's Alice?"

"Lovely!" Norma said, pulling off her gloves. "She had a wire fromChris, and he gets back to-night. I had luncheon with your mother, and Iam to go to stay with her for two or three nights, anyway. But AuntAlice said that she would like to have me back again next week for hertwo teas. "

"How old are you, Norma?" Annie asked, suddenly. Any sign of interest onher part always thrilled the girl, who answered, flushing:

"Nineteen; twenty in January, Aunt Annie. "

"I'm thinking, if you'd like it, of giving you a little tea here nextmonth, " Annie said, lazily. "You know quite enough of the youngsters nowto have a thoroughly nice time, and afterward we'll have a dinner here, and they can dance!"

"Oh, Aunt Annie--if I'd like it!" Norma exclaimed, rosy with pleasure. 

"You would?" Annie asked, looking at a hand from which she had drawn theglove, and smiling slightly. "It means that you don't go anywhere in themeantime. You're not out until then, you know!"

"Oh, but I won't be going anywhere, anyway, " Norma conceded, contentedly. 

"You'll have a flood of invitations fast enough after the tea, " Annieassured her, pleased at her excitement, "and until then, you can simplysay that you are not going out yet. "

"Chris said he might take me to the opera on the first night; I've neverbeen, " Norma said, timidly. "But I can explain to him!"

"Oh, that won't count!" Annie assured her, carelessly. "We'll all bethere, of course! Have you worn the corn-coloured gown yet?"

"Oh, no, Aunt Annie!"

"Well, keep it for that night. And you and Chris might----No, he'll wantto dine with Alice, and she'll want to see you in your new gown. I wasgoing to say that you might dine here, but you'd better not. "

"I think Leslie and Acton are going to be asked to dine with us, " Normasaid. "Aunt Alice said something about it!"

"Well, " Annie agreed indifferently. "Ring that bell, Norma--I've got toget up! Where are you girls going now?"

"Some of the girls are coming to my house for tea, " Leslie answered, listlessly. "I've got the car here. Come on, Norma!"

"But you're not driving, Kiddie?" her aunt asked, quickly. 

Leslie, who neither looked nor felt well, raised half-resentful eyes. 

"Oh, no, I'm not driving, and I'm lying in bed mornings, and I don'tplay squash, or ride horseback, or go in for tennis!" she drawled, halfangrily. "I'm having a perfectly _lovely_ time! I wish Acton had alittle of it; he wouldn't be so pleased! Makes me so mad, " grumbledLeslie, as she wandered toward the door, busily buttoning her coat. "Grandma crying with joy, and Aunt Alice goo-gooing at me, andActon----"

"Come, now, be a little sport, Leslie!" her aunt urged, affectionately, with her arm about her. "It's rotten, of course, but after all, it doesmean a lot to the Liggetts----"

"Oh, now, don't _you_ begin!" Leslie protested, half-mollified, with herparting nod. "Don't--for pity's sake!--talk about it, " she added, rudely, to Norma, as Norma began some consolatory murmur on the stairs. But when they were before her own fire, waiting for the expected girls, she made Norma a rather ungracious confidence. 

"I don't want Aunt Alice or any one to know it, but if Acton Liggettthinks I am going to let him make an absolute fool of me, he'smistaken!" Leslie said, in a sort of smouldering resentment. 

"What has Acton done?" Norma asked, flattered by the intimation of trustand not inclined to be apprehensive. She had seen earlier differencesbetween the young married pair, and now, when Leslie was physically at adisadvantage, she and Alice had agreed that it was not unnatural thatthe young wife should grow exacting and fanciful. 

"Acton is about the most selfish person I ever knew, " Leslie said, almost with a whimper. "Oh, yes, he is, Norma! You don't see it--but Ido! Chris knows it, too; I've heard Chris call him down a thousand timesfor it! I am just boiling at Acton; I have been all day! He leaveseverything to me, everything; and I'm not well, now, and I can't standit! And I'll tell him I can't, too. "

"I suppose a man doesn't understand very well, " Norma ventured. 

"_He_ doesn't!" Leslie said, warmly. "All Acton Liggett thinks of is hisown comfort--that's all! I do everything for him--I pay half theexpenses here, you know, more than half, really, for I always pay for myown clothes and Milly, and lots of other things. And then he'll do some_mean_, ugly thing that just makes me furious at him--and he'll walk outof the house, perfectly calm and happy!"

"He's always had his own way a good deal, " Norma who knew anythingexcept sympathy would utterly exasperate Leslie conceded, mildly. 

"Yes, " Leslie agreed, flushing, and stiffening her jaw rather ominously, "and it's just about time that he learned that he isn't always going tohave it, too! It's very easy for him to have me do anything that is hardand stupid----Do you suppose, " she broke off, suddenly, "that _I'm_ soanxious to go to the Duers' dinner? I wouldn't care if I never saw oneof them again!"

Norma gathered that a dinner invitation from the Duers had been the maincause of the young Liggetts' difference, and framed a general question. 

"That's Saturday night?"

"Friday, " Leslie amended. "And what does he do? He meets Roy Duer at theclub, and says oh, no, he can't come to the dinner Friday, but _Leslie_can! He has promised to play bridge with the Jeromes and that crowd. ButLeslie would _love_ to go! So there I am--old lady Duer called me up thenext morning, and was so sorry Acton couldn't come! But she would expectme at eight o'clock. It's for her daughter, and she goes away again onTuesday. And then"--Leslie straightened herself on the couch, and fixedNorma with bright, angry eyes;--"then Spooky Jerome telephoned here, andsaid to tell Acton that if he couldn't stir up a bridge party forFriday, he'd stir up something, and for Acton to meet him at the club!"

Norma laughed. 

"And did you give Acton that message?" she inquired. 

"No, indeed, I didn't--that was only this morning!" Leslie said, inangry satisfaction. "I telephoned Mrs. Duer right away, and said thatActon would be so glad to come Friday, and if Acton Liggett doesn't likeit, he knows what he can do! You laugh, " she went on with a sort ofpathetic dignity, "but don't you think it's a rotten way for a man totreat his wife, Norma? Don't you, honestly? There's nothing--nothingthat I don't give way in--absolutely nothing! And I don't believe mostmen----Oh, hello, Doris, " Leslie broke off, gaily, as there was a stirat the door; "come in! Come in, Vera--aren't you girls angels to come inand see the poor old sick lady!"

Norma was still lingering when Acton came home, an hour later. She heardhis buoyant voice in the hall, and began to gather her wraps and glovesas he came to the tea table. 

"Acton, " Leslie said, firmly, "the bridge party is off for Friday, andyou're going to Mrs. Duer's with me, and you ought to be ashamed ofyourself!"

"Whew! I can see that I'm popular in the home circle, Norma!" Actonsaid, leaning over the big davenport to kiss his wife. "How's my baby?All right, dear, anything you say goes! I was going to cancel the game, anyway. Look what Chris brought you, Cutey-cute! Say, Norma, has shebeen getting herself tired?"

Leslie, instantly mollified, drew his cold, firm cheek against hers, andlooked sidewise toward Norma. 

"Isn't he the nice, big, comfy man to come home to his mad little oldwife?" she mumbled, luxuriously. 

"Yes, " Acton grumbled, still half embracing her, "but you didn't talkthat way at breakfast, you little devil!"

"Am I a devil?" Leslie asked, lazily. And looking in whimsical penitenceat Norma, she added, "I _am_ a devil. But you were just as mean as youcould be, " she told him, widening her eyes and shaking her head. 

"I know it. I felt like a dog, walking down town, " her husband admittedpromptly. "I tried to telephone but you weren't here!"

"I was at Aunt Annie's, " Leslie said, softly. Her husband had slipped inbeside her on the wide davenport, and she was resting against hisshoulder, and idly kissing the little rebel lock of hair that fellacross one temple. "He's a pretty nice old husband!" she murmured, contentedly. 

"And she's a pretty nice little wife, if she did call me some meannames!" Acton returned, kissing the top of her head without altering herposition. Norma looked at them with smiling contempt. 

"You're a great pair!" she conceded, indulgently. 

Leslie now was free to examine, with a flush and a laugh, themicroscopic pair of beaded Indian moccasins that Chris had brought fromFlorida. Norma asked about Chris. 

"Oh, he's fine, " Acton answered, "looks brown and hard; he had agorgeous time! He said he might be round to see Grandma to-morrowmorning!"

"I'll tell her, " Norma said, getting up to go. She left them stillclinging together, like a pair of little love-birds, with peace fullyrestored for the time being. 

Mrs. Melrose's car had been waiting for some time, and she was whirledhome through the dark and wintry streets without the loss of a second. Lights were lighted everywhere now, and tempered radiance filled the oldhall as she entered it. It was just six o'clock, but Norma knew that sheand the old lady were to be alone to-night, and she went through thelong drawing-room to the library beyond it, thinking she might find herstill lingering over the teacups. Dinner under these circumstances wasusually at seven, and frequently Mrs. Melrose did not change her gownfor it. 

There was lamplight in the library, but the old lady's chair was empty, and the tea table had been cleared away. Norma, supposing the roomunoccupied, gave a little gasp of surprise and pleasure as Chrissuddenly got to his feet among the shadows. 

She was so glad to see him, so much more glad than she would haveimagined herself, that for a few minutes she merely clung tight to thetwo hands she had grasped, and stood laughing and staring at him. Chrisback again! It meant so much that was pleasant and friendly to Norma. Chris advised her, admired her, sympathized with her; above all, sheknew that he liked her. 

"Chris; it's so nice to see you!" she exclaimed. 

The colour came into his face, and with it an odd expression that shehad never seen there before. Without speaking he put his arm about her, and drew her to him, and kissed her very quietly on the mouth. 

"Hello, you dear little girl!" he said, freeing her, and smiling at her, somewhat confusedly. "You're not half so glad to see me as I am to beback! You're looking so well, Norma, " he went on, with almost his usualmanner, "and Alice tells me you are making friends everywhere. What'sthe news?"

He threw himself into a large leather chair, and, hardly knowing whatshe was doing, in the wild hurrying of her senses, Norma sat downopposite him. Her one flurried impulse was not to make a scene. Chriswas always so entirely master of a situation, so utterly unemotional andself-possessed, that if he kissed her, upon his return from athree-weeks' absence, it must be a perfectly correct thing to do. 

Yet she felt both shaken and protestant, and it was with almostsuperhuman control that she began to carry on a casual conversation, giving her own report upon Alice and Leslie, Acton and the world ingeneral. 

When Mrs. Melrose, delighted at the little attention from herson-in-law, came smilingly in, five minutes later, Norma escapedupstairs. She had Leslie's old room here when she spent the night, butit was only occasionally that Alice spared her, for her youth and highspirits, coupled with the simplicity and enthusiasm with which she wasencountering the new world, made her a really stimulating companion forthe sick woman. 

Regina came in to hook her into a simple dinner gown, but Norma did notonce address her, except by a vague smile of greeting. Her thoughts werein a whirl. Why had he done that? Was it just brotherly--friendliness?He was much older than she--thirty-seven or eight; perhaps he had feltonly an older man's kindly----

But her face blazed, and she flung this explanation aside angrily. Hehad no business to do it! He had no right to do it! She was furious athim!

She stood still, staring blankly ahead of her, in the centre of theroom. The memory came over her in a wave; the odd, half-hesitating, half-confident look in his eyes as his arms enveloped her, the faintaroma of talcum powder and soap, the touch of his smoothly shaven cheek. 

It was almost an hour later that she went cautiously downstairs. He wasgone--had been gone since half-past six o'clock, Joseph reported. Normawent in to dinner with Mrs. Melrose, and they talked cheerfully ofChris's return, of Leslie and Annie. 

By eight o'clock, reading in Mrs. Melrose's upstairs sitting-room, thatfirst room that she had seen in this big house, eight months ago, Normabegan to feel just a trifle flat. Chris Liggett was one of the mostpopular men in society, in demand everywhere, spoiled by womeneverywhere. He had quite casually, and perhaps even absent-mindedly, kissed his wife's young protégée upon meeting her after an absence, andshe had hastily leaped to conclusions worthy of a schoolgirl! He wouldbe about equally amused and disgusted did he suspect them. 

"He likes you, you little fool, " Norma said to herself, "and you willutterly spoil everything with your idiocy!"

"What did you say, lovey?" the old lady asked, half closing her book. 

"Nothing!" Norma said, laughing. She reopened her novel, and tried tointerest herself in it. But the thought of that quarter hour in thestudy came back over and over again. She came finally to the conclusionthat she was glad Chris liked her. 

The room was very still. A coal fire was glowing pink and clear in thegrate, and now and then the radiators hissed softly. Norma had one bigbrilliant lamp to herself, and over the old lady's chair anotherglowed. Everything was rich, soft, comfortable. Regina was hovering inthe adjoining room, folding the fat satin comforters, turning down thetransparent linen sheets with their great scroll of monogram, and behindRegina were Joseph and Emma, and all the others, and behind them thegreat city and all the world, eager to see that this old woman, who hadgiven the world very little real service in her life, should be shieldedand warmed and kept from the faintest dream of need. 

Money was a strange thing, Norma mused. What should she do, if--as hershamed and vague phrase had it--if "something happened" to AuntMarianna, and she was not even mentioned in her will? Of course it was ahateful thing to think of, and a horrible thing, sitting here oppositeAunt Marianna in the comfortable upstairs sitting-room, but the thoughtwould come. Norma wished that she knew. She would not have shortened theold lady's life by a single second, and she would have died herselfrather than betray this thought to any one, even to Wolf--even to Rose!But it suddenly seemed to her very unjust that she could be picked outof Biretta's bookstore to-day, by Aunt Marianna's pleasure, and perhapsput back there to-morrow through no fault of her own. They were allkind, they were all generous, but this was not just. She wanted thedelicious and self-respecting feeling of being a young woman with"independent means. "

Such evenings as this one, even in the wonderful Melrose house, wereundeniably dull. She and Rose had often grumbled, years ago, becausethere were so many of these quiet times, in between the Saturday andSunday excitements. But Norma, in those days, had never supposed thatdulness was ever compatible with wealth and ease. 

"Cards?" said old Mrs. Melrose, hopefully, as the girl made a suddenmove. She loved to play patience, but only when she had an audience. Norma, who had just decided to give her French verbs a good hour'sattention, smiled amiably, and herself brought out the green table. Shesat watching the fall of kings and aces, reminding her companion of atleast every third play. But her thoughts went back to Chris, and thefaint odour of powder and soap, and the touch of his shaved cheek. 

CHAPTER XIII

Norma met Chris again no later than the following afternoon. It wastwilight in Alice's room, and she and Norma were talking on into thegloom, discussing the one or two guests who had chanced to come in fortea, and planning the two large teas that Alice usually gave some timelate in November. 

Chris came in quietly, kissed his wife, and nodded carelessly to Norma. The girl's sudden mad heartbeats and creeping colour could subsidetogether unnoticed, for he apparently paid no attention to her, andpresently drifted to the piano, leaving the women free to resume theirconference. 

Alice was a person of more than a surface sweetness; she loved harmonyand serenity, and there was almost no inclination to irritability orugliness in her nature. Her voice was always soothing and soft, and herpatience in the unravelling of other people's problems wasinexhaustible. Alice was, as all the world conceded, an angel. 

But Norma had not been a member of her household for eight monthswithout realizing that Alice, like other household angels, did not wishan understudy in the rôle. She did not quite enjoy the nearness ofanother woman who might be all sweet and generous and peace-making, too. That was her own sacred and peculiar right. She could gently andpersistently urge objections and find inconsistencies in any plan ofher sister or of Norma, no matter how advantageous it sounded, and shecould adhere to a plan of her own with a tenacity that, taken inconsideration with Alice's weak body and tender voice, was nothing lessthan astonishing. 

Norma, lessoned in a hard school, and possessing more than her share ofadaptability and common sense, had swiftly come to the conclusion that, since it was not her part to adjust the affairs of her benefactors, shemight much more wisely constitute herself a sort of Greek chorus toAlice's manipulations. Alice's motives were always of the highest, andit was easy to praise them in all honesty, and if sometimes the youngerwoman had mentally arrived at a conclusion long before Alice hadpatiently and sweetly reached it, the little self-control was not muchto pay toward the comfort of a woman as heavily afflicted as Alice. 

For Norma knew in her own heart that Alice was heavily afflicted, although the invalid herself always took the attitude that herhelplessness brought the best part of life into her room, and shut awayfrom her the tediousness and ugliness of the world. 

"'Aïda' two weeks from to-night!" Alice said this evening, with hersympathetic smile. 

"Oh, Aunt Alice--if you could go! Didn't you love it?"

"Love the opera? Do you hear her, Chris? But I didn't love peopletalking all about me--and they will do it, you know! And that makes onefurious!"

"I see you getting furious, " Norma observed, incredulously. 

"You don't know me! But I was a bashful, adoring sort of little person, on my first night----"

"Yes, you were, " Chris teased her, over a lazy ripple of thirds. "Shewas such a bashful little person at the Mardi Gras dance she promisedArtie Peyton her first cotillion the following season. "

"Oh, Aunt Alice--you didn't!"

Alice's rather colourless face flushed happily, and she half lowered herlids. 

"Chris thinks that is a great story on me. As a matter of fact, I did dothat; I was just childish enough. But I can't think how the story gotout, for I was desperately ashamed of it. "

"I told Aunt Annie and Leslie to-day that you wanted the Liggetts todine here that night, " Norma said, suddenly. Instantly she realized thatshe had made a mistake. And there was no one in the world whose lightreproof hurt her as Alice's did. 

"You--you gave my invitation to Leslie?" Alice asked, quietly. 

"Well--not quite that. But I told her that you had said that you meantto ask them, " Norma replied, uncomfortably. 

"But, Norma, I did not ask you to mention it. " Alice was even smiling, but she seemed a little puzzled. 

"I'm so sorry--if you didn't want me to!"

"It isn't that. But one feels that one----"

"What is Norma sorry about?" Chris asked, coming back to the fire. "Norma, you're up against a terrible tribunal, here! Alice has beenknown--well, even to give new hats to the people who make her angry!"

This fortunate allusion to an event now some months old entirelyrestored Alice's good humour. Norma had accepted a certain almost-newhat from Leslie just before the wedding, and Alice, burning with hersecret suspicion as to Norma's parentage, and in the first flush of heraffection for the girl, had told Norma that in her opinion Leslie shouldnot have offered it. It was not for Norma to take any patronage from hercousin, Alice said to herself. But Norma's distress at havingdisappointed Alice was so fresh and honest that the episode had endedwith Alice's presenting her with a stunning new hat, to wipe out theterrible effect of her mild criticism. 

"You're a virago, " said Chris, seating himself near his wife. "Tell mewhat you've been doing all day. Am I in for that dinner at Annie'sto-night? I wish I could stay here and gossip with you girls. "

"Dearest, you'd get so stupid, tied here to me, that you wouldn't knowwho was President of the United States!" Alice smiled. "Yes, I promisedyou to Annie two weeks ago. To-morrow night Norma goes to Leslie, andyou and I have dinner all alone, so console yourself with that. "

"_Très bien_, " Christopher agreed. And as if the phrase suggested it, hewent on to test Norma's French. Norma was never self-conscious with him, and in a few seconds he and Alice were laughing at her earnestabsurdities. When husband and wife went on into a conversation of theirown, Norma sat back idly, conscious that the atmosphere was always easyand pleasant when Chris was at home, there were no petty tensions and nosensitive misconstructions while Chris was talking. Sometimes with Annieand Alice, and even with Leslie, Norma could be rapidly brought to thestate of feeling prickly all over, afraid to speak, and equallyuncomfortable in silence. But Chris always smoothed her spirit intoutter peace, and reëstablished her sense of proportion, her sense ofhumour. 

Neither he nor Alice noticed her when she presently went away to changeher gown for dinner, but when she came out of her room, half an hourlater, Chris was just coming up to his. Their rooms were on the samefloor--his the big front room, and hers one of the sunny small ones atthe back of the house. Norma's and that of Miss Slater, Alice's nurse, were joined by a bathroom; Chris had his own splendid dressing-room andbath, fitted, like his bedroom, with rugs and chests and highboys worthyof a museum. 

"Aren't you going to be late, Chris?" Norma asked, when they met at thetop of the stairs. Fresh from a bath, with her rich dark hair pushedback in two shining wings from her smooth forehead, and her throatrising white and soft from the frills of a black lacy gown, she was theincarnation of youth and sweetness as she looked up at him. "Seveno'clock!" she reminded him. 

For answer he surprised her by catching her hand, and staring gravelydown at her. 

"Were you angry at me, Norma?" he asked, in a quiet, businesslike voice. 

"Angry?" she echoed, surprised. But her colour rose. "No, Chris. Whyshould I be?"

"There is no reason why you should be, of course, " he answered, simply, almost indifferently. And immediately he went by her and into his room. 

CHAPTER XIV

On the memorable night of her first grand opera Norma and Chris dined atMrs. Von Behrens's. It was Alice who urged the arrangement, urged itquite innocently, as she frequently did the accidental pairing of Normaand Chris, because her mother was going for a week to Boston, thefollowing day, and they wanted an evening of comfortable talk together. 

Norma, with Freda and Miss Slater as excited accomplices, laid out thenew corn-coloured gown at about five o'clock in the afternoon, laidbeside it the stockings and slippers that exactly matched it in colour, and hung over the foot of her bed the embroidered little stays that wereso ridiculously small and so unnecessarily beautiful. On a separatechair was spread the big furred wrap of gold and brown brocade, the highcarriage shoes, and the long white gloves to which the tissue paperstill was clinging. The orchids that Annie had given Norma that morningwere standing in a slender vase on the bureau, and as a final touch thegirl, regarding these preparations with a sort of enchanted delight, unfurled to its full glory the great black ostrich-feather fan. Normaamused Alice and Mrs. Melrose by refusing tea, and disappeared longbefore there was need, to begin the great ceremony of robing. 

Miss Slater manicured her hands while Freda brushed and dressed the darkthick hair. Between Norma and the nurse there had at first been nospecial liking. Both were naturally candidates for Alice's favour. Butas the months went by, and Norma began to realize that Miss Slater'sposition was not only far from the ideally beautiful one it had seemedat first, but that the homely, elderly, good-natured woman was actuallyputting herself to some pains to make Norma's own life in the Liggetthouse more comfortable than it might have been, she had come genuinelyto admire Alice's attendant, and now they were fast friends. It wasoften in Norma's power to distract Alice's attention from the fact thatMiss Slater was a little late in returning from her walk, or she wouldmake it a point to order for the invalid something that Miss Slater hadforgotten. They stood firmly together in many a small domesticemergency, and although the nurse's presence to-night was not, as Normathought with a little pang, like having Rose or Aunt Kate with her, still it was much, much better than having no one at all. 

She sat wrapped luxuriously in a brilliant kimono, while Freda brushedand rolled busily, and Miss Slater polished and clipped. Then ensued aperiod of intense concentration at the mirror, when the sparkling pinswere put in her hair, and the little pearl earrings screwed into herears, and when much rubbing and greasing and powdering went on, and evensome slight retouching of the innocent, red young mouth. 

"Shall I?" Norma asked, dubiously eyeing the effect of a trace of rouge. 

"Don't be an idiot, Miss Sheridan!" Miss Slater said. "You've got alovely colour, and it's a shame to touch it!"

"Oh, but I think I look so pale!" Norma argued. 

"Well, when you've had your dinner----Now, you take my advice, my dear, and let your face alone. "

"Well, all the girls do it, " Norma declared, catching up the littlegirdle, and not unwilling to be over-persuaded. She gave an actualshiver of delight as Freda slipped the gown over her head. 

It fell into shape about her, a miracle of cut and fit. The littlesatiny underskirt was heavy with beads, the misty cloud of gauze thatfloated above it was hardly heavy enough to hold its own embroideries. Little beaded straps held it to the flawless shoulders, and Norma madeher two attendants laugh as she jerked and fussed at the gold lace andtiny satin roses that crossed her breast. 

"Leave it alone!" Miss Slater said. 

"Oh, but it seems so low!"

"Well, you may be very sure it isn't--Lenz knows what he's doing when hemakes a gown. .. . Here, now, what are you going to do with your flowers?"

"Oh, I'm going to wrap the paper round them, and carry them until justbefore I get to Aunt Annie's. Wouldn't you?"

"Wouldn't I? I like that!" said Miss Slater, settling her eyeglasses onthe bridge of her nose with a finger and thumb. Norma had a momentarypang of sympathy; she could never have been made to understand that ahappy barnyard duck may look contentedly up from her pool at the peacocktrailing his plumes on the wall. 

"Norma--for the love of Allah!" Chris shouted from downstairs. 

Norma gave a panicky laugh, snatched her fan, wrap, and flowers, andfled joyously down to be criticized and praised. On the whole, they werepleased with her: Alice, seizing a chance for an aside to tell her notto worry about the lowness of the gown, that it was absolutely correctshe might be very sure, and Mrs. Melrose quite tremulously delightedwith her ward. Chris did not say much until a few minutes before theyplanned to start, when he slipped a thin, flat gold watch from his vestpocket, and asked speculatively:

"Norma, has your Aunt Kate ever seen you in that rig?"

"No!" she answered, quickly. And then, with less sparkle, "No. "

"Well, would you like to run in on her a moment?--she'd probably like ittremendously!" said Chris. 

"Oh, Chris--I would love it!" Norma exclaimed, soberly, over a disloyalconviction that she would rather not. "But have we time?"

"Tons of time. Annie's dinners are a joke!"

Norma glanced at the women; Mrs. Melrose looked undecided, but Alicesaid encouragingly:

"I think that would be a sweet thing to do!"

So it was decided: and Norma was bundled up immediately, and called outexcitedly laughing good-byes as Chris hurried her to the car. 

"You know, it means a lot to your own people, really to see you thisway, instead of always reading about it, or hearing about it!" Chrissaid, in his entirely prosaic, big-brotherly tone, as the car glidedsmoothly toward the West Sixties. 

"I know it!" Norma agreed. "But I don't know how you do!" she added, inshy gratitude. 

"Well, I'm nearly twice your age, for one thing, " he replied, pleasantly. And as the car stopped unhesitatingly at the familiar doorhe added: "Now make this very snappy!"

She protested against his getting out, but he accompanied her all theway upstairs, both laughing like conspirators as they passed somewhatastonished residents of the apartment house on the way. 

Aunt Kate and Wolf, and Rose and Harry, as good fortune would have it, were all gathered under the dining-room lamp, and there was a burst oflaughter and welcome for Norma and "Mister Chris. " Norma's wrap wastossed aside, and she revolved in all her glory, waving her fan at arm'slength, pleasantly conscious of Wolf's utter stupefaction, andconscious, too, a little less pleasantly, that Aunt Kate's maternal eyedid not agree with Aunt Annie's in the matter of _décolletage_. 

Then she and Chris were on their way again, and the legitimate delightsof being young and correctly dressed and dining with the great Mrs. VonBehrens, and going to Grand Opera at the Metropolitan, might begin. Norma had perhaps never in her life been in such wild spirits as she wasto-night. It was not happiness, exactly, not the happiness of a serenespirit and a quiet mind, for she was too nervous and too much excited tobe really happy. But it was all wonderful. 

She was the youngest person at the long dinner table, at which eighteenguests sat in such stately and such separated great carved chairs asalmost to dine alone. Everyone was charmingly kind to the little Melroseprotégée, who was to be introduced at a formal tea next week. The menwere all older than Leslie's group and were neither afraid nor tooselfishly wrapped up in their own narrow little circle to be polite. Norma had known grown young men, college graduates, and the sons ofprominent families, who were too entirely conventional to be addressedwithout an introduction, or to turn to a strange girl's rescue if shespilled a cup of tea. But there was none of that sort of thing here. 

To be sure, Annie's men were either married, divorced, or too old to bestrictly eligible in the eyes of unsophisticated nineteen, but that didnot keep them from serving delightfully as dinner partners. Then AuntAnnie herself was delightful to-night, and joined in the general, ifunexpressed, flattery that Norma felt in the actual atmosphere. 

"Heavens--do you hear that, Ella?" said Annie, to an intimate andcontemporary, when Norma shyly asked if the dress was all as it shouldbe--if the--well, the neck, wasn't just a little----? "Heavens!" saidMrs. Von Behrens, roundly, "if I had your shoulders--if I were nineteenagain!--you'd see something a good deal more sensational than that!"

This was not the sort of thing one repeated to Aunt Kate. It was, likemuch of Annie's conversation, so daring as to be a little shocking. ButAnnie had so much manner, such a pleasant, assured voice, that somehowNorma never found it censurable in her. 

To-night, for the first time, Hendrick von Behrens paid her a littlepersonal attention. Norma had always liked the big, blond, silent man, with his thinning fair hair, and his affection for his sons. It was ofhis sons that he spoke to her, as he came up to her to-night. 

"There are two little boys up in the nursery that don't want to go tosleep until Cousin Norma comes up to say good-night, " said Hendrick, smiling indulgently. Norma turned willingly from Chris and two or threeother men and women; it was a privilege to be sufficiently at home inthis magnificent place to follow her host up to the nursery upstairs, and be gingerly hugged by the little silk-pajamed boys. 

Chris watched her go, the big fan and the blue eye and the delightfullow voice all busy as she and Hendrick went away, and an odd thoughtcame to him. That was her stepfather upon whom she was turning thebattery of those lovely eyes; those little boys who were, he knew, jumping up and down in their little Dutch colonial beds, and calling"Norma--Norma--Norma!" were her half-brothers. 

He glanced toward Annie; her beautiful figure wrapped in a sparklingrobe that swept about her like a regal mantle, her fair hair scallopedlike waves of carved gold, her fingers and throat and hair and earssparkling with diamonds. Annie had on the famous Murison pearls, too, to-night; she was twisting them in her fingers as her creditable Italiandelighted the ears of the Italian ambassador. Her own daughter to-nightsat among her guests. Chris liked to think himself above surprise, butthe strangeness of the situation was never absent a second from histhoughts. He drifted toward his hostess; he was proud of his ownlanguages, and when Norma came back she came to stand wistfully besidethem, wondering if ever--ever--ever--she would be able to do that!

It was all thrilling--exhilarating--wonderful! Norma's heart thumpeddelightfully as the big motor-cars turned into Broadway and took theirplace in the slowly moving line. She pressed her radiant face close tothe window; snow was fluttering softly down in the darkness, and menwere pushing it from the sidewalks, and shouting in the night. Therewas the usual fringe of onlookers in front of the opera house, and itrequired all Norma's self-control to seem quite naturally absorbed ingetting herself safely out of the motor-car, and quite unconscious thather pretty ankles, and her pretty head, and the great bunched wrap, werenot being generally appraised. 

Women were stepping about gingerly in high heels; lights flashed onquivering aigrettes, on the pressed, intense faces of the watchers, andon the gently turning and falling snow, against the dark street. Normawas caught in some man's protecting arm, to push through into thechurning crowd in the foyer; she had a glimpse of uniformed ushers andprogramme boys, of furred shoulders, of bared shoulders, of silk hats, of a sign that said: "Footmen Are Not Allowed in This Lobby. "

Then somehow through, criss-crossed currents in the crowd, they reachedthe mysterious door of the box, and Norma saw for the first time thegreat, dimly lighted circle of the opera house, the enormous rise ofbalcony above balcony, the double tiers of boxes, and the rows of seatsdownstairs, separated by wide aisles, and rapidly filling now with themen and women who were coming down to their places almost on a run. 

The orchestra was already seated, and as Norma stood awed and ecstaticin the front of the Von Behrens box, the conductor came in, and was metwith a wave of applause, which had no sooner died away than the lightsfanned softly and quickly down, there was the click of a baton on wood, and in the instantly ensuing hush the first quivering notes of the operabegan. 

"Sit down, you web-foot!" Acton Liggett whispered, laughing, and Normasank stiffly upon her chair, risking, as the curtain had not yet risen, a swift, bewildered smile of apology toward the dim forms that wererustling and settling behind her. 

"Oo--oo--ooo!" was all that she could whisper when presently Chrismurmured a question in her ear. And when the lights were on again, andthe stars taking their calls, he saw that her face was wet, and herlashes were caught together with tears. 

"It _is_ wonderful music; the best of Verdi!" he said to Annie; andAnnie, agreeing, sent him off with "that baby, " to have her dry hereyes. Norma liked his not speaking to her, on her way to the greatparlour where women were circling about the long mirrors, but when sherejoined him she was quite herself, laughing, excited, half dancing ashe took her back to the box. 

She sat down again, her beautiful little head, with its innocent sweepof smooth hair, visible from almost every part of the house, herquestions incessant as the blue eyes and the great fan swept to and fro. Once, when she turned suddenly toward him, in the second entr'acte, shesaw a look on Chris's face that gave her an odd second of something likefear, but the house darkened again before she could analyze the emotion, and Norma glued her eyes to the footlights. 

What she did not see was a man, not quite at ease at his own first grandopera, not quite comfortable in his own first evening dress, lost--andwillingly lost, among the hundreds who had come in just to stand far atthe back, behind the seats, edging and elbowing each other, changingfeet, and resting against any chair-back or column that offered itself, and sitting down, between acts, on the floor. 

Wolf was not restless. He was strong enough to stand like an Indian, andtall enough to look easily over the surrounding heads. More than that, "Aïda" did not interest him in itself, and at some of its most brilliantpassages he was guilty of slipping away to pace the hallways insolitude, or steal to the foyer for a brief cigarette. But when thehouse was lighted again, he went back into the auditorium, and then hiseyes never left the little dark head of the girl who sat forward in oneof the lower tier of boxes, waving her big fan, and talking over herbare shoulder to one or another of the persons beside or behind her. 

CHAPTER XV

It was long afterward that Norma dated from the night of "Aïda" a newfeeling in herself toward Chris, and the recognition of a new feeling inChris toward her. She knew that a special sort of friendship existedbetween them from that time on. 

He had done nothing definite that night; he had never done or saidanything that could be held as marking the change. But Norma felt it, and she knew that he did. And somehow, in that atmosphere of fragrantflowers and women as fragrant, of rustling silks and rich furs, of musicand darkness, and the old passion of the story, it had come to her forthe first time that Chris was not only the Chris of Alice's room, AuntMarianna's son-in-law and Leslie's brother-in-law, but her own Chris, too, a Chris who had his special meaning for her, as well as for therest. 

She liked him, it was natural that she should especially and truly likehim. Almost all women did, for he was of the type that comes closest tounderstanding them, and he had made their favour an especial study. Chris could never be indifferent to any woman; if he did not activelydislike her, he took pains to please her, and, never actively dislikingNorma, he had from the first constituted himself her guide and friend. 

Long before he was conscious that there was a real charm to this littlechance member of their group, Norma had capitulated utterly. Hissureness, his pleasant suggestions, his positive approval or kindlyprotests, had done more to make her first months among the Melroseshappy than any other one thing. Norma loved him, and was grateful tohim, even when he hurt her. In the matter of a note of acceptance, of alittle act of thanks, of a gown or hat, his decision was absolute, andshe had never known it mistaken. 

Besides this, she saw him everywhere welcome, everywhere courted andadmired, and everywhere the same Chris--handsome, self-possessed, irreproachably dressed whether for golf or opera, adequate to the claimsof wife, mother, family, or the world. She had heard Acton turn to himfor help in little difficulties; she knew that Leslie trusted him withall her affairs, and he was as close as any man could be to an intimacywith Hendrick von Behrens. Quietly, almost indifferently, he wouldsettle his round eyeglasses on their black ribbon, narrow his fine, keeneyes and set his firm jaw, and take up their problems one by one, alwayscourteous, always interested, always helpful. 

Then Chris had charm, as visible to all the world as to Norma. He hadthe charm of race, of intelligence and education, the charm of a man whoprides himself upon his Italian and French, upon his knowledge of booksand pictures, and his capacity for holding his own in any group, on anysubject. He was quite frankly a collector, a connoisseur, a dilettantein a hundred different directions, and he had had leisure all his lifeto develop and perfect his affectations. In all this new world Normacould not perhaps have discovered a man more rich in just what wouldimpress her ignorance, her newness, to the finer aspects ofcivilization. 

For a few weeks after "Aïda, " as other operas and Annie's tea, and theopening social life of the winter softened the first impression, Normatried to tell herself that she had imagined a little tendency, onChris's part, too--well, to impress her with his friendliness. She hadseen him flirt with other women, and indeed small love affairs of allsorts were constantly current, not only in Annie's, but in Leslie'sgroup. A certain laxity was in the air, and every month had itsseparation or divorce, to be flung to the gossips for dissection. 

Norma was not especially flattered at first, and rather inclined toresent the assurance with which Chris carried his well-known tendencyfor philandering into his own family, as it were. But as the full dayswent by, and she encountered in him, wherever they met, the same grave, kindly attention, the same pleasant mouth and curiously baffling eyes, in spite of herself she began to experience a certain breathless andhalf-flattered and half-frightened pride in his affection. 

He never kissed her again, never tried to arrange even the most casualmeeting alone with her, and never let escape even a word of more thanbrotherly friendliness. But in Leslie's drawing-room at tea time, or atsome studio tea or Sunday luncheon in a country house, he always quietlyjoined her, kept, if possible, within the sound of her voice, and neverhad any plan that would interfere with possible plans of hers. If shewas ready to go, he would drive her, perhaps to discourse impersonallyupon the quality of the pictures, or the countryside mantled with snow, upon the way. If she wanted a message telephoned, a telegram sent, evena borrowed book returned, it was "no trouble at all"; Chris would ofcourse attend to it. 

At dinner parties he was rarely placed beside her; hers was naturallythe younger set. But he found a hundred ways to remind her that he wasconstantly attentive. Norma would feel her heart jump in her side as hestarted toward her across a ball-room floor, handsome, perfectly poised, betraying nothing but generous interest in her youthful good times as hetook his place beside her. 

So Christmas came and went, and the last affairs of the brief seasonbegan to be announced: the last dances, the last dinners, the"pre-Lenten functions" as the papers had it. Norma, apologizing, in oneof her flying calls on Aunt Kate, for the long intervals between visits, explained that she honestly did not know where the weeks flew!

"And are you happy, Baby?" her aunt asked, holding her close, andlooking anxiously into her eyes. 

"Oh--happy!" the girl exclaimed, with a sort of shallow, quick laughthat was quite new. "Of course I am. I never in my life dreamed that Icould be so happy. I've nothing left to wish for. Except, of course, that I would like to know where I stand; I would like to have my ownposition a little more definite, " she added. But the last phrases wereuttered only in her own soul, and Mrs. Sheridan, after a ratherdiscontented scrutiny of the face she loved so well, was obliged tochange the subject. 

CHAPTER XVI

In mid-Lent, when an early rush of almost summery warmth suddenly pouredover the city, Chris and Norma met on the way home from church. Normawalked every Sunday morning to the big cathedral, but Chris went onlyonce or twice a year to the fashionable Avenue church a few blocks away. This morning he had joined her as she was quietly leaving the house, andinstantly it flashed into her mind that he had deliberately planned todo so, knowing that Miss Slater, who usually accompanied her, was awayfor a week's vacation. 

Their conversation was impersonal and casual, as always, as they walkedalong the drying sidewalks, in the pleasant early freshness, but asChris left her he asked her at about what time she would be returning, and Norma was not surprised, when she came out of the cathedral, alittle later than the great first tide of the outpouring congregation, to see him waiting for her. 

The thought of him had been keeping her heart beating fast, and her mindin confusion, even while she tried to pray. And she had thought that shemight leave the church by one of the big side doors, and so at least runa fair risk of missing him. But Norma half feared an act that woulddefine their deepening friendship as dangerous, and half longed for thefifteen minutes of walking and chatting in the sunshine. So she camestraight to him, and with no more than a word of greeting they turnednorth. 

It was an exquisite morning, and the clean, bare stretches of the Avenuewere swimming in an almost summerlike mist of opal and blue. Suchpersons as were visible in the streets at all were newsboys, idlepolicemen, or black-clad women hurrying to or from church, and when theyreached the Park, it was almost deserted. The trees, gently moving in awarm breeze, were delicately etched with the first green of the year;maples and sycamores were dotted with new, golden foliage, and the grasswas deep and sweet. A few riders were ambling along the bridle-path, thehorses kicking up clods of the damp, soft earth. 

Norma and Christopher walked slowly, talking. The girl was hardlyconscious of what they said, realizing suddenly, and almost with terror, that just to be here, with Chris, was enough to flood her being with ahappiness as new and miraculous as the new and miraculous springtimeitself. There was no future and no past to this ecstasy, no Alice, noworld; it was enough, in its first bloom, that it existed. 

"You've had--what is it?--a whole year of us, Norma, " Chris said, "andon the whole, it's been happy, hasn't it?"

"Fourteen months, " she corrected him. "Fourteen months, at least, sinceAunt Kate and I called on Aunt Marianna. Yes, it's been like a miracle, Chris. I never will understand it. I never will understand why afriendless girl--unknown and having absolutely no claim--should havebeen treated so wonderfully!"

"And you wouldn't want to go back?" he mused, smiling. 

"No, " she said, quickly. "I am afraid, when I think of ever going back!"

"I don't see why you should, " Chris said. "You will inherit, throughyour grandmother's will----"

He had been following a train of thought, half to himself. Norma's roundeyes, as she stopped short in the path, arrested him. 

"My _grandmother_!" she exclaimed. 

"Your Aunt Marianna, " he amended, flushing. But their eyes did not moveas they stared at each other. 

A thousand remembered trifles flashed through Norma's whirling brain; athousand little half-stilled suspicions leaped to new life. She hadaccepted the suggested kinship in childish acquiescence, but doubt wasaflame now, once and for all. The man knew that there was no furtherevading her. 

"Chris, do you know anything about me?" she asked, directly. 

"Yes, I think--I know everything, " he answered, after a second'shesitation. 

Norma looked at him steadily. "Did you know my father and mother?" shedemanded, presently, in an odd, tense voice. 

There was another pause before Chris said, slowly:

"I have met your father. But I knew--I know--your mother. "

"You _know_ her?" The world was whirling about Norma. "Is Aunt Kate mymother?" she asked, breathing hard. 

"No. I don't know why you should not know. You call her Aunt Annie, "Chris said. 

Norma's hands dropped to her sides. She breathed as if she weresuffocating. 

"_Aunt Annie!_" she whispered, in stupefaction. 

And she turned and walked a few steps blindly, her eyes wide and vacant, and one hand pressed to her cheek. "My God!--my God!" he heard her say. 

"Annie eloped when she was a girl, " Chris began presently, when she wasdazedly walking on again. "She was married, and the man deserted her. She was ill, in Germany----But shall I talk now? Would you rather not?"

"Oh, no--no! Go on, " Norma said, briefly. 

"Alice was the first to guess it, " Christopher pursued. "Her sisterdoesn't know it, or dream it!"

"Aunt Annie doesn't! She does not know that I'm her own daughter!. .. Butwhat _does_ she think?"

"She supposes that her baby died, dear. I'm sorry to tell you, Norma, but I couldn't lie to you! You'll understand everything, now--why yourgrandmother wants to make it all up to you----"

"Does Leslie know?" Norma demanded, suddenly, from a dark moment ofbrooding. 

"Nobody knows! Your Aunt Kate, your grandmother, Alice, and I, areabsolutely the only people in the world! And Norma, _nobody else mustknow_. For the sake of the family, for everyone's sake----"

"Oh, I see that!" she answered, quickly and impatiently. And for awhileshe walked on in silence, and apparently did not hear his one or twoefforts to recommence the conversation. "Aunt Annie!" she said once, half aloud. And later she added, absently: "Yes, I should know!"

They had walked well up into the Park, now they turned back; the sun wasgetting hot, first perambulators were making their appearance, andNorma loosened her light furs. 

"So I am a Melrose!" she mused. And then, abruptly: "Chris, what _is_ myname?"

"Melrose, " he answered, flushing. 

Her eyes asked a sudden, horrified question, and she took the answerfrom his look without a word. He saw the colour ebb from her face, leaving it very white. 

"You said--they--my parents--were married, Chris?" she asked, painfully. 

"Annie supposed they were. But he was not free!"

Norma did not speak again. In silence they crossed the Avenue, and wenton down the shady side street. Chris, with chosen words and quietly, told her the story of Annie's girlhood, who and what her father hadbeen, the bitter grief of her grandmother, the general hushing up of thewhole affair. He watched her anxiously as he talked, for there was adrawn, set look to her face that he did not like. 

"Why did Aunt Kate ever decide to bring me to my--my grandmother, afterso many years?" she asked. 

"I'm sure I don't know that. Alice and I have fancied that Kate mighthave kept in touch with your father all this time, and that he might bedead now, and not likely to--make trouble. "

"That is it, " Norma agreed, quickly. "Because not long before she cameto see Aunt Marianna she _had_ had some sort of news--from Canada, Ithink. An old friend was dead; I remember it as if it were yesterday. "

"Then that fits in, " Chris said, glad she could talk. 

"But I can't believe it!" she cried in bewilderment. And suddenly sheburst out angrily: "Oh, Chris, is it fair? Is it fair? That one girl, like Leslie, should have so--so much! The name, the inheritance, thehusband and position and the friends--and that another, through no faultof hers, should be just--just--a nobody?"

She choked, and Christopher made a little protestant sound. 

"Oh, yes, I am!" she insisted, bitterly. "Not recognized by my ownmother--she's _not_ my mother! No mother could----"

"Listen, dear, " Chris begged, really alarmed by the storm he had raised. "Your grandmother, for reasons of her own, never told Annie there was ababy. It is obvious why she kept silent; it was only kindness--decency. Annie was young, younger than you are, and poor old Aunt Marianna onlyknew that her child was ill, and had been ill-treated, and most cruellyused. You were brought up safely and happily, with good and lovingpeople----"

"The best in the world!" Norma said, through her teeth, fighting tears. 

"The best in the world. Why, Norma, what a woman they've made you!You--who stand alone among all the girls I know! And then, " Chriscontinued quickly, seeing her a little quieter, "when you are growingup, your aunt brings you to your grandmother, who immediately turns herwhole world topsy-turvy to make you welcome! Is there anything so unfairin that? Annie made a terrible mistake, dear----"

"And everyone but Annie pays!" Norma interrupted, bitterly. 

"Norma, she is your mother!" Chris reminded her, in the tone that, coming from him, always instantly affected her. Her eyes fell, and hertone, when she spoke, was softer. 

"Just bearing a child isn't all motherhood, " she said. 

"No, my dear; I know. And if Annie were ever to guess this, it isn'tlike her not to face the music, at any cost. But isn't it better as itis, Norma?"

The wonderful tone, the wonderful manner, the kindness and sympathy inhis eyes! Norma, with one foot on the lowest step, now raised her eyesto his with a sort of childish penitence. 

"Oh, yes, Chris! But"--her lips trembled--"but if Aunt Kate had onlykept me from knowing for ever!" she faltered. 

"She wouldn't take that responsibility, dear, and one can't blame her. Acomfortable inheritance comes from your grandmother; it isn't theenormous fortune Leslie inherited, of course, but it is all you wouldhave had, even had Annie brought you home openly as her daughter. It isenough to make a very pretty wedding-portion for me to give away withyou, my dear, in a few years, " Chris added more lightly. The suggestionmade her face flame again. 

"Who would marry me?" she said, under her breath, with a scornful look, under half-lowered lids, into space. 

For answer he gave her an odd glance--one that lived in her memory formany and many a day. 

"Ah, Norma--Norma--Norma!" he said--quickly, half laughingly. Then hisexpression changed, and his smile died away. "I have something to bear, "he said, with a glance upward toward Alice's windows. "Life isn't roses, roses, all the way for any one of us, my dear! Now, you've got a bad bitof the road ahead. But let's be good sports, Norma. And come in now, I'm famished; let's have breakfast. My honour is in your hands, " headded, more gravely, "perhaps I had no right to tell you all this! Youmustn't betray me!"

"Chris, " she responded, warmly, "as if I could!"

He watched her eating her breakfast, and chatting with Alice, a littlelater, and told himself that some of Annie's splendid courage hadcertainly descended to this gallant little daughter. Norma was pale, andnow and then her eyes would meet his with a certain strained look, orshe would lose the thread of the conversation for a few seconds, butthat was all. Alice noticed nothing, and in a day or two Chris couldeasily have convinced himself that the conversation in the springgreenness of the Sunday morning had been a dream. 

CHAPTER XVII

However, that hour had borne fruit, and in two separate ways had had itsdistinct effect upon Norma's mind and soul. In the first place, she hada secret now with Chris, and understanding that made her most casualglance at him significant, and gave a double meaning to almost everyword they exchanged. It was at his suggestion that she decided to keepthe revelation from Alice, even though she knew what Alice knew, forAlice was not very well, and Chris was sure that it would only agitateand frighten the invalid to feel that the family's discreditable secretwas just that much nearer betrayal. So she and Chris alone shared theagitation, strain, and bewilderment of the almost overwhelmingdiscovery; and Norma, in turning to him for advice and sympathy, deepened tenfold the tie between them. 

But even this result was not so far-reaching as the less-obvious effectof the discovery upon her character. Everything that was romantic, undisciplined, and reckless in Norma was fostered by the thought that sothrilling and so secret a history united her closely to the Melrosefamily. That she was Leslie's actual cousin, that the closest of allhuman relationships bound her to the magnificent Mrs. Von Behrens, werethoughts that excited in her every dramatic and extravagant tendency towhich the amazing year had inclined _her_. With her growing ease in herchanged environment, and the growing popularity she enjoyed there, camealso a sense of predestination, the conviction that her extraordinaryhistory justified her in any act of daring or of unconventionality. There was nothing to be gained by self-control or sanity, Norma mighttell herself, at least for those of the Melrose blood. 

Her shyness of the season before had vanished, and she could plunge intothe summer gaiety with an assurance that amazed even herself. Her firstmeeting with Annie, after the day of Chris's disclosures, was an ordealat which he himself chanced to be a secretly thrilled onlooker. Normagrew white, and her lips trembled; there was a strained look in herblue, agonized eyes. But Annie's entire unconsciousness that thesituation was at all tense, and the presence of three or four totaloutsiders, helped Norma to feel that this amazing and dramatic momentwas only one more in a life newly amazing and dramatic, and she escapedunnoticed from the trial. The second time was much less trying, andafter that Norma showed no sign that she ever thought of the matter atall. 

Mrs. Von Behrens took Norma to her Maine camp in July, and when the girljoined the Chris Liggetts in August, it was for a season of hard tennis, golf, polo, dancing, yachting, and swimming. Norma grew lean and tanned, and improved so rapidly in manner and appearance that Alice felt, concerning her, certain fears that she one day confided to her mother. 

It was on an early September day, dry and airless, and they were on theside porch of the Newport cottage. 

"You see how pretty she's growing, Mama, " Alice said. And then, in alower tone, with a quick cautious glance about: "Mama, doesn't sheoften remind you of Annie?"

Mrs. Melrose, who had been contentedly rocking and drowsing in the heat, paled with sudden terror and apprehension, and looked around her withsick and uneasy eyes. 

"Alice--my darling, " she stammered. 

"I know, Mama--I'm not going to talk about it, truly!" Alice assuredher, quickly. "I never even _think_ of it!" she added, earnestly. 

"No--no--no, that's right!" her mother agreed, hurriedly. Her soft oldface, under the thin, crimped gray hair, was full of distress. 

"Mama, there is no reason why it should worry you, " Alice said, distressed, too. "Don't think of it; I'm sorry I spoke! But sometimes, even though she is so dark, Norma is so like Annie that it makes myblood run cold. If Annie ever suspected that she is--well, her owndaughter----"

Mrs. Melrose's face was ashen, and she looked as if touched by the heat. 

"No--no, dear!" she said, with a sort of terrified brevity. "You andChris were wrong there. I can't talk to you about it, Alice, " she brokeoff, pleadingly; "you mustn't ask me, dear. You said you wouldn't, " shepleaded, trembling. 

Alice was stupefied. For a full minute she lay in her pillows, staringblankly at her mother. 

"_Isn't_----!" she whispered at last, incredulous and bewildered. 

"No, dear. Poor Annie----! No, no, no; Norma's mother is dead. But--butyou must believe that Mama is acting as she believes to be for thebest, " she interrupted herself, in painful and hesitating tones, "andthat I can't talk about it now, Alice; I can't, indeed! Some day----"

"Mama darling, " Alice cried, really alarmed by her leaden colour andwild eyes, "please--I'll never speak of it again! Why, I know thateverything you do is for us all, darling! Please be happy about it. Comeon, we'll talk of something else. When do you leave fortown--to-morrow?"

"Poole drives us as far as Great Barrington to-morrow, Norma and me, "the old lady began, gaining calm as she reviewed her plans. Chris neededher for a little matter of business, and Norma was anxious to see herCousin Rose's new baby. The conversation drifted to Leslie's baby, theidolized Patricia who was now some four months old. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Two days later found Norma happily seated beside the big bed she andRose had shared less than two years ago, where Rose now lay, with thesnuffling and mouthing baby, rolled deep in flannels, beside her. Rosehad come home to her mother, for the great event, and Mrs. Sheridan wasexulting in the care of them both. Just now she was in the kitchen, andthe two girls were alone together, Norma a little awed and a littleashamed of the emotion that Rose's pale and rapt and radiant face gaveher; Rose secretly pitying, from her height, the woman who was not yet amother. 

"And young Mrs. Liggett was terribly disappointed that her baby was agirl, " Rose marvelled. "I didn't care one bit! Only Harry is glad it's aboy. "

"Well, Leslie was sure that hers was going to be a boy, " Norma said, "and I wish you could have heard Aunt Annie deciding that the Melrosesusually had sons----"

"She'll have a boy next, " Rose suggested. 

Norma glanced at her polished finger-tip, adjusted the woolly tan bagshe carried. 

"She says never again!" she remarked, airily. Rose's clear foreheadclouded faintly, and Norma hastened to apologize. "Well, my dear, that'swhat she _said_, " she remarked, laughingly, with quick fingers on Rose'shand. 

"It's sad that Mrs. Chris Liggett didn't have just one, before heraccident. It would make such a difference in her life, " Rose mused, withher eyes fixed thoughtfully on Norma's face. There was something aboutNorma to-day that she did not understand. 

"Oh, it's frightfully sad, " Norma agreed, easily. And because she likedthe mere sound of his name, she added: "Chris is fond of children, too!"Then, with a sudden change of manner that even unsuspicious Rose thoughtodd, she said, gaily: "Isn't Aunt Kate perfectly delicious about thenurse? I knew she would be. Of course, she does everything, and MissMiller simply looks on. "

"Well, almost, " Rose said, with an affectionate laugh. "She didn't wanta nurse at all, but Harry and Wolf insisted. And then--night beforelast--when I was so ill, it almost made me laugh in spite of feeling sobadly, to hear Mother with Miss Miller. 'You'd better get out of here, my dear, ' I heard her say, 'this is no place for a girl like you----'"

Norma's laugh rang out. But Rose noticed that her face soberedimmediately almost into sadness, and that there was a bitter line aboutthe lovely mouth, and a shadow of something like cynicism in her blueeyes. 

"Norma, " she ventured, suddenly storming the fortress, "what is it, darling? Something's worrying you, Nono. Can't you tell me?"

With the old nursery name Norma's gallant look of amusement andreassurance faltered. She looked suddenly down at the hand Rose washolding, and Rose saw the muscles of her throat contract, and that shewas pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. 

A tear fell on the locked hands. Norma kept her eyes averted, shook herhead. 

"Is it a man, Nono?"

Norma looked up, dashed away the tears, and managed a rueful smile. 

"Isn't it always a man?" she asked, bravely. 

Rose still looked at her anxiously, waiting for further light. 

"But, dearest, surely he likes you?"

The other girl was silent, rubbing her thumb slowly to and fro acrossRose's thin hand. 

"I don't know, " she answered, after a pause. 

"But of course he does!" Rose said, confidently. "It'll all come right. There's no reason why it shouldn't!" And with all the interest of theirold days of intimacy she asked eagerly: "Nono, is he handsome?"

"Oh, yes--tremendously. "

"And the right age?"

Norma laughed, half protestant. 

"Rose, aren't you a little demon for the third degree!" But she likedit, in spite of the reluctance in her manner, and presently added: "Idon't think age matters, do you?"

"Not in the least, " Rose agreed. "Norma, does Mrs. Melrose know?"

"Know what?" Norma parried. 

"Know that--well, that you like him?"

Norma raised serious eyes, looked unsmilingly into Rose's smiling face. 

"Nobody knows. It--it isn't going right, Rose. I can't tell you aboutall of it----" She paused. 

"Well, I wouldn't know the people if you did, " Rose said, sensibly. Andsuddenly she added, timidly, "Norma, there isn't another girl?"

"Well, yes, there is, in a way, " Norma conceded, after thought. 

"That he likes better?" Rose asked, quickly. 

"No, I don't think he likes her better!" Norma answered. 

"Well, then----?" Rose summarized, triumphantly. 

But there was no answering flash from Norma, who was looking down again, and who still wore a troubled expression, although, as Rose rejoiced tosee, it was less bitter than it had been. 

"Rose, " she said, gravely, "if he was already bound in honour; if hewas--promised, to her?"

Rose's eyes expressed quick sympathy. 

"Norma! You mean engaged? But then how did he ever come to care foryou?" she followed it up anxiously. 

"I don't know!" Norma said, with a shrug. 

"But, Nono, why do you think he _does_ like you? Has he said so?"

Norma had freed her hand, and pulled on her rough little cream-colouredgloves. Now she spread her five fingers, and looked at them withslightly raised brows and slightly compressed lips. 

"No, " she said, briefly and quietly. 

Rose's face was full of distress. Again she reached for Norma's fingers. 

"Dearest--I'm so sorry! But--but it doesn't make you feel very badly, does it, Norma?"

Norma did not answer. 

"Ah, it does!" Rose said, pitifully. "Are you so sure you care?"

At this Norma laughed, glanced for a moment into far space, shook herhead. And for a few minutes there was utter silence in the plain littlebedroom. Then the baby began to fuss and grope, and to make littlesneezing faces in his cocoon of blankets. 

"Just one more word, dear, " Rose said, later, when Aunt Kate had comeflying in, and carried off the new treasure, and when Norma was standingbefore the mirror adjusting her wide-brimmed summer hat. "If he caresfor you, it's much, much better to make the change now, Norma, than towait until it's too late! No matter how hard, or how unpleasant itis----"

"I know, " Norma agreed, quickly, painfully, stooping to kiss her. "We'llbe down next month, Rose, and then I'll see you oftener!"

"When do you go?" Rose said, clinging to her hand. 

"Go back to Newport? To-morrow. Or at least we get to Great Barringtonto-morrow, and we may stay there with the Richies a few days. AuntMarianna hates to make the trip in one day, so we stayed there lastnight. But she had to come down to sign some papers. Chris has been downall the week and he wired for her, so she and I drove down together. "

"And is the country lovely now?" Rose asked. 

"Well--dry. But it is beautiful, too; so hot and leafy and thunderous. "

"And where are you--at the old house?"

"No; at a hotel, up near the Park. I wish you and little Peter Pan couldget away somewhere, Rose, for we'll have another three weeks of theheat!"

"Oh, my dear, Mother Redding and the baby and I are going to theBerkshires for at least two whole weeks, " Rose announced, happily. "AndI thought that my bad boy was coming in early August, " she added, ofthe baby, "or I would have gone first. Try to come oftener, Norma, " shepleaded, "for we all love you so!"

And again, Norma's manner worried her. What was there in the sisterlylittle speech to bring the tears again to Norma's eyes?

"I know you do, Rosy, " Norma said, very low. "I wish I could go up tothe Berkshires with you. "

"Well, then, why don't you, dear?"

"Oh"--Norma flung back her head--"I don't know!" she said, with anattempt at lightness. And two minutes later she had kissed Aunt Kate, and greeted Wolf, in the kitchen, and Rose heard their laughter, andthen the closing of the front door. 

CHAPTER XIX

Wolf walked with her to the omnibus. He had come in tired with the heatof the long day, but Norma thought him his sweetest self, brotherly, good, unsuspicious, and unaffected. He complimented her on herappearance; he had a kind word for Harry Redding, for the baby; he toldNorma that he and his mother had gone to Portland by water a few weeksbefore and had a great spree. Norma, tired and excited, loved him forhis very indifference to her affairs and her mood, for the simplicitywith which he showed her the book he was reading, and the amusement hefound all along the dry and dusty and dirty street. Everything wasinteresting to Wolf, and he made no apologies for the general wiltednessand disorder of the neighbourhood. 

Norma looked down at him, from the top of the omnibus, and thought thathe was a friendly and likable big young man, with his rumpled bare headshining reddish-brown in the streaming, merciless sunlight. She had noidea that his last look at her was like some precious canvas that acollector adds to his treasures, that to the thousands of little-girlNormas, and bookshop Normas, and to the memorable picture of a débutanteNorma at her first opera, Wolf carried away with him to-night one moreNorma: a brown, self-possessed, prettier-than-ever Norma, in a wideEnglish hat and a plain linen suit, and transparent green silk stockingsthat matched her green silk parasol. 

She got down from the omnibus, a few blocks farther away, and walkedslowly along the shady side of the burning cross-streets, thinking, thinking, thinking. It was the hottest hour of the afternoon; therewould be a storm to-night, but just now the air hung motionless, and theshadows were almost as dazzling, in their baking dimness, as thesunshine. Houses were closed and silent, show windows bare; theomnibuses creaked by loaded with passengers, trying to get cool. Therewas an odour of frying potatoes; other odours, stale and lifeless, creptthrough the stale and lifeless air. 

Norma was entirely familiar with this phase of city life, for, exceptfor Sundays at Coney Island, or picnicking on some beach or in somemeadow or wood of Connecticut, she and the Sheridans had weathered twosuccessive hot seasons very comfortably within two hundred yards ofBroadway. It held no particular horrors for her; she reflected that inanother hour or two the sun would quite have died away, and then everyflight of old brownstone steps would hold its chatting group, and everystreet its scores of screaming and running children. 

Wherever her thoughts carried her, they began and ended withChristopher. He had never kissed her again after the night of his returnfrom Miami; he had hardly touched even her hand, and he had said no wordof love. But, as the summer progressed, these two had grown steadily tolive more and more for each other, for just the casual friendly looksand words of ordinary intercourse in the presence of other persons, andfor the chance hours that Fate now and then permitted them alone. 

Norma, in every other relationship grown more whimsical and morerestless, showing new phases of frivolity and shallowness to the world, had deepened and developed, under Chris's eyes, into her own highestpossibility of womanhood. To him she was earnest, honest, only anxiousto be good and to be true. He knew the viewpoint of that wiser self thatwas the real Norma; he knew how wide open those blue eyes were to whatwas false and worthless in the world around her. 

And Norma had seen him change, too, or perhaps more truly becomehimself. Still apparently the old Chris, handsome, poised, cynical, andonly too ready to be bored, he went his usual course of golf and polo, gave his men's dinners, kissed Alice good-bye and departed for yachtingor motoring trips. Even Alice, shut away from reality in her own worldof music and sweet airs, flowers and friendship, saw no change. 

But Norma saw it. She knew that Chris was no longer ready to respond toevery pretty woman's idle challenge to a flirtation; she knew that therewas a Chris of high ideals, a Chris capable even of heroism, a Chris wholoved simplicity, who loved even service, and who was not too spoiledand too proud to give his time as well as his money, to give himselfgladly where he saw the need. 

Their hours alone together were hours of enchanting discovery. Memoriesof the little boy that had been Chris, the little girl that had beenNorma, their hopes and ambitions and joys and sorrows, all wereexchanged. And to them both every word seemed of thrilling and absorbinginterest. To Norma life now was a different thing when Chris merely wasin the room, however distant from her, however apparently interested insomeone, or something, else. She knew that he was conscious of her, thinking of her, and that presently she would have just the passingword, or smile, or even quiet glance that would buoy her hungry soullike a fresh and powerful current. 

It was not strange to her that she should have come to feel him the mostvital and most admirable of all the persons about her, for many of themen and women who loved Chris shared this view. Norma had not been inthe Melrose house a month before she had heard him called "wonderful", "inimitable", "the only Chris", a hundred times. Even, she told herselfsometimes, even the women that Chris quite openly disliked would notreturn coldness for coldness. And how much less could she, so muchyounger, resist the generous friendship he offered to her ignorance, andawkwardness, and strangeness?

That he saw in her own companionship something to value she had at firstbeen slow to believe. Sheer pride had driven her to reluctance, toshyness, to unbelief. But that was long ago, months ago. Norma knew nowthat he truly liked her, that the very freshness and unconventionalityof her viewpoint delighted him, and that he gave her a frankness, asimpleness, and an ardour, in his confidences, that would haveastonished Alice herself. 

Alice! Norma was thinking of Alice, now. Just where did Alice come in?Alice had always been the most generous of wives. But she could not begenerous here; no human woman could. She liked Norma, in a sense sheneeded Norma, but Chris was all her world. 

"But, good heavens!" Norma mused, as she walked slowly along, "isn'tthere to be any friendship for a man but his men friends, or any for awoman except unmarried men? Isn't there friendship at all between thesexes? Must it always be sneaking and subterfuge, unless it's marriage?I don't want to marry Chris Liggett----"

She stopped short, and the blood left her heart suddenly, and rushedback with a pounding that almost dizzied her. 

"_I don't want to marry Chris Liggett_, " she whispered, aloud. And thenshe widened her eyes at space, and walked on blindly for a little way. "Oh, Chris, Chris, Chris!" she said. "Oh, what shall I do?"

An agony almost physical in its violence seized her, and she began tomove more rapidly, as if to wear it out, or escape it. 

"No, no, no; I can't care for him in that way, " said Norma, feeling herthroat dry and her head suddenly aching. "We can't--we cannot--like eachother that way!"

The rest of the walk was a blank as far as her consciousness wasconcerned. She was swept far away, on a rushing sea of memories, memories confused and troubled by a vague apprehension of the days tocome. That was it; that was it; they loved each other. Not askinspeople, not as friends, not as the Chris and Norma of Alice's andLeslie's and Annie's lives, but as man and woman, caught at last in theold, old snare that is the strongest in life. 

Bewildered and sick, she reached the cool, great colonnaded doorway ofthe hotel. And here she and Christopher came face to face. 

He was coming out, was indeed halfway down the stone steps. They stoodstill and looked at each other. 

Norma thought that he looked tired, that perhaps the hot week instreets and offices had been hard for him. He was pale, and the smile hegave her was strained and unnatural. They had not seen each other forten days, and Norma, drinking in every expression of the firm mouth, theshrewd, kindly eyes, the finely set head, felt sudden confidence andhappiness flood her being again. It was all nonsense, this imagining ofhers, and she and Chris would always be the best friends in the world!

"Alice is perfectly splendid, " Norma said, in answer to his firstquestions, "and Leslie's baby is much less fat and solid looking, andgetting to be so cunning. Where is Aunt Marianna?"

"Upstairs, " he answered with a slight backward inclination of his head. "We had a most satisfactory day, and you and she can get off to GreatBarrington to-morrow without any trouble. "

"She and I?" Norma said, distressed by something cold and casual in hismanner. "But aren't you coming, too? Alice depends upon your coming!"

"I can't, I'm sorry to say. I may get up on Friday night, " Chris said, with an almost weary air of politeness. 

"Friday! Why, then--then I'll persuade Aunt Marianna to wait, " Normadecided, eagerly. "You must come with us, Chris; it's quite lovely upthrough Connecticut!"

"I'm very sorry, " the man repeated, glancing beyond her as if in a hurryto terminate the conversation. "But I may not get up at all this week. And I've arranged with Aunt Marianna that Poole drives you up to-morrow. You'll find her, " he added, lightly, "enthusiastic over the baby'spictures. They're really excellent, and I think Leslie will bedelighted. And now I have to go, Norma----"

"But you're coming back to have dinner with us?" the girl interrupted, thoroughly uneasy at the change in him. 

"Not to-night. I have an engagement! Good-bye. I'll see you very soon. The hat's charming, Norma, I think you may safely order more of them bymail if you have to. Good-bye. "

And with another odd smile, and his usually courteous bow, he was gone, and Norma was left staring after him in a state almost of stupefaction. 

What was the matter with him? The question framed itself indignantly inNorma's mind as she automatically crossed the foyer of the hotel andwent upstairs. Mechanically, blindly, she took off the big hat, flungaside the parasol, and went through the uniting bathroom into Mrs. Melrose's room. What on earth had been the matter with Chris? What righthad he--how dared he--treat her so rudely?

Mrs. Melrose was in a flowered chair near a wide-opened window. She hadput on a lacy robe of thin silk, after the heat and burden of the day, and her feet were in slippers. Beside her was a tall glass, holding aniced drink, and before her, on a small table, Regina had ranged thebeautiful photographs of Leslie's baby that were to be the youngmother's birthday surprise next week. 

"Hello, dear!" she said, in the pleasant, almost cooing voice with whichshe almost always addressed the girls of the family, "isn't this just adreadful, dreadful day? Oh, my, so hot! Look here, Norma, just see mylittle Patricia's pictures. Aren't they perfectly lovely? I'm _so_pleased with them. I was just----Regina, will you order Miss Normasomething cool to drink, please. Tea, dear? Or lemonade, like your oldaunty?--I was just showing them to Chris. Yes. And he thought they werejust perfectly lovely; see the little fat hand, and how beautifully thelace took! There--that one's the best. You'll see, Leslie will like thatone. "

The topic, fortunately for Norma's agitation, was apparentlyinexhaustible and all-absorbing. The girl could sink almost unnoticedinto an opposite chair, and while her voice dutifully utteredsympathetic monosyllables, and her eyes went from the portraits oflittle Patricia idly about the big room, noting the handsome old maplefurniture, and the costly old scrolled velvet carpet, and the aspect offlaming roofs beyond the window in the sunset, her thoughts could turnand twist agonizingly over this new mystery and this new pain. What hadbeen the matter with Chris?

Anger gave way to chill, and chill to utter heartsickness. The cause ofthe change was unimportant, after all; it was the change itself that wassignificant. Norma's head ached, her heart was like lead. She had beenthinking, all the way down in the car--all to-day--that she would meethim to-night; that they would talk. Now what? Was this endless eveningto drag away on his terms, and were they to return to Newport to-morrow, with only the memory of that cool farewell to feed Norma's starving, starving soul?

"Chris couldn't stay and have dinner, " Mrs. Melrose presently wasregretting, "but, after all, perhaps it's cooler up here than anywhere, and I am so tired that I'm not going to change! You'll just have tostand me as I am. "

And the tired, heat-flushed, wrinkled old face, under its fringe of grayhair, smiled confidently at Norma. The girl smiled affectionately back. 

Five o'clock. Six o'clock. It was almost seven when Norma came forthfrom a cold bath, and supervised the serving of the little meal. Shemerely played with her own food, and the old lady was hardly morehungry. 

"Oh, no, Aunt Marianna! I think that Leslie was just terribly nervous, after Patricia was born. But I think now, especially when they're backin their own house, they'll be perfectly happy. No reason in the worldwhy they shouldn't be, " Norma heard herself saying. So they had beentalking of Acton and Leslie, she thought. Leslie was spoiled, and Actonwas extravagant, and the united families had been just a little worriedabout their attitudes toward each other. Mrs. Melrose was sure thatNorma was right, and rambled along the same topic for some time. ThenNorma realized that they had somehow gotten around to Theodore, Leslie'sfather. This subject was always good for half hours together, she couldsafely ramble a little herself. The deadly weight fell upon her spiritagain. What had been the matter with Chris?

At nine o'clock her tired old companion began preparations for bed, andNorma, catching up some magazines, went into her own room. She couldhear Regina and Mrs. Melrose murmuring together, the running of water, the opening and shutting of bureau drawers. 

Norma went to her open window, leaned out into the warm and brilliantnight. There was a hot moon, moving between clouds that promised, atlast, a break in the binding heat. Down the Avenue below her omnibuseswheeled and rumbled, omnibuses whose upper seats were packed with thinlyclad passengers, but otherwise there was little life and movementabroad. A searchlight fanned the sky, fell and wavered upward again. Ahurdy-gurdy, in the side street, poured forth the notes of the"Marseillaise. "

Suddenly, and almost without volition, the girl snatched the telephone, and murmured a number. Thought and senses seemed suspended while shewaited. 

"Is this the Metropolitan Club? Is Mr. Christopher Liggett there?. .. Ifyou will, please. Thank you. Say that it is a lady, " said Norma, in ahurried and feverish voice. The operator would announce presently, ofcourse, that Mr. Liggett was not there. The chance that he was there wasso remote----

"Chris!" she breathed, all the tension and doubt dropping from her likea garment at the sound of his quiet tones. "Chris--this is Norma!"

A pause. Her soul died within her. 

"What is it?" Chris asked presently, in a repressed voice. 

"Well--but were you playing cards?"

"No. "

"You've had your dinner, Chris?"

"No. Yes, I had dinner, of course. I dined with Aunt Marianna--no, thatwas lunch! I dined here. "

"Chris, " Norma faltered, speaking quickly as her courage ebbed, "Ididn't want to interrupt you, but you seemed so--so different, thisafternoon. And I didn't want to have you cross at me; and Iwondered--I've been wondering ever since--if I have done something thatmade you angry--that was stupid and--and----"

She stopped. The forbidding silence on his part was like a wall thatcrossed her path, was like a veil that blinded and choked her. 

"Not at all, " he said, quickly. "Where did you get that idea?. .. Hello--hello--are you there, Norma?" he added, when on her part in turnthere was a blank silence. 

For Norma, strangled by an uprising of tears as sudden as it wasunexpected and overwhelming, could make no audible answer. Why sheshould be crying she could not clearly think, but she was bathed intears, and her heart was heavy with unspeakable desolation. 

"Norma!" she heard him say, urgently. "What is it? Norma----?"

"Nothing!" she managed to utter, in a voice that stemmed the flood foronly a second. 

"Norma, " Chris said, simply, "I am coming out. Meet me downstairs in tenminutes. I want to see you!"

Both telephones clicked, and Norma found herself sitting blankly in thesudden silence of the room, her brain filled with a confusion of shamedand doubting and fearful thoughts, and her heart flooded with joy. 

Five minutes later she stepped from the elevator into the lobby, andselected a big chair that faced obliquely on the entrance doors. Thelittle stir in the wide, brightly lighted place always interested herand amused her; women drifting from the dining-room with their lightwraps over their arms, messengers coming and going, the far strains ofthe orchestra mingling pleasantly with the nearer sounds of feet andvoices. 

To-night her spirit was soaring. Nothing mattered, nothing of herdoubts, nothing of his coldness, except that Chris was even now comingtoward her! Her mind followed the progress of his motor-car, up throughthe hot, deserted streets. 

Suddenly it seemed to her that she could not bear the emotion ofmeeting. With every man's figure that came through the wide-open doorsher heart thumped and pounded. 

His voice; she would hear it again. She would see the gray eyes, andwatch the firm, quick movement of his jaw. 

Other men, meeting other women, or parting from other women, came andwent. Norma liked the big, homely boy in olive drab, who kissed thelittle homely mother so affectionately. 

She glanced at her wrist watch, twisted about to confirm its unwelcomenews by the big clock. Quarter to ten, and no Chris. Norma settled downagain to waiting and watching. 

Ten o'clock. Quarter past ten. He was not coming! No, although her sickand weary spirit rose whenever there was the rush of a motor-car to thecurb or the footstep of a man on the steps outside, she knew now that hewas not coming. Hope deferred had exhausted her, but hope dead was far, far worse. He was not coming. 

It was almost half-past ten when a bell-boy approached. Was it MissSheridan? Mr. Christopher Liggett had been called out of town, andwould try to see Mrs. Melrose in a day or two. 

Norma turned upon him a white face of fatigue. 

"Is Mr. Liggett on the telephone?"

"No, Miss. He just telephoned a message. "

The boy retired, and Norma went slowly upstairs, and slowly made herpreparations for sleep. But the blazing summer dawn, smiting the city atfour o'clock, found her still sitting at the window, twirling a tasselof the old-fashioned shade in her cold fingers, and staring with haggardeyes into space. 

CHAPTER XX

More than a week later Annie gave a luncheon to a dozen women, andtelephoned Norma beforehand, with a request that the girl come earlyenough to help her with name cards. 

"These damnable engagement luncheons, " said Aunt Annie, limping aboutthe long table, and grumbling at everything as she went. Annie hadwrenched her ankle in alighting from her car, and was cross with naggingpain. "Here, put Natalie next to Leslie, Norma; no, that puts theGunnings together. I'll give you Miss Blanchard--but you don't speakFrench! Here, give me your pencil--and confound these thingsanyway----Fowler, " she said to the butler, "I don't like to see a thinglike that on the table--carry that away, please; and here, get somebodyto help you change this, that won't do! That's all right--only I wantthis as you had it day before yesterday--and don't use those, get theglass ones----"

And so fussing and changing and criticizing, Annie went away, and Normafollowed her up to her bedroom. 

"I'm wondering when we're going to give _you_ an engagement luncheon, Norma, " said the hostess, in a whirl of rapid dressing. "Who's aheadnow?"

"Oh--nobody!" Norma answered, with a mirthless laugh. She had beenlistless and pale for several days, and did not seem herself at all. 

"Forrest Duer, is it?"

"Oh, good heavens--Aunt Annie! He's twenty-one!"

"Is that all--he's such a big whale!----Don't touch my hair, Phoebe, it'll do very well!" said Annie to the maid. "Well, don't be in too muchof a hurry, Norma, " she went on kindly. "Nothing like being sure!That"--Annie glanced at the retiring maid--"that's what makes me nervousabout Leslie, " she confessed. "I'm afraid we hurried the child into itjust a little bit. It was an understood thing since they were nothingbut kiddies. "

"Leslie is outrageously spoiled, " Norma said, not unkindly. 

"Leslie? Oh, horribly. Mama always spoils everyone and poor Theodorespoiled her, too, " Annie conceded. 

"She told me herself yesterday, " Norma went on, with a trace of her oldanimation, "that they've overdrawn again. Now, Aunt Annie, I do thinkthat's outrageous! Chris straightened them all out last--when wasit?--June, after the baby came, and they have an enormousincome--thousands every month, and yet they are deep in again!"

"The wretched thing is that they quarrel about that!" Annie agreed. 

"Well, exactly! That was what it was about day before yesterday, andLeslie told me she cried all night. And you know the other day she tookPatricia and came home to Aunt Marianna, and it was terrible!"

"How much do you suppose the servants know of that?" Annie asked, frowning. 

"Oh, they _must_ know!" Norma replied. 

"Foolish, foolish child! You know, Norma, " Annie resumed, "Leslie comesby her temper naturally. She is half French; her mother was aFrenchwoman--Louison Courtot. "

"It's a pretty name, " Norma commented. "Did you know her?"

"Know her? She was my maid when I was about seventeen, a very superiorgirl. I used to practise my French with her. She was extremely pretty. After my father died my mother and I went to Florida, and when we cameback the whole thing broke. I thought it would kill Mama! At first wethought Theodore had simply gotten her into 'trouble, ' to use the dearold phrase. But _pas du tout_; she had 'ze _mar-ri-age_ certificate' allsafe and sound. But he was no more in love with her than I was--a boynineteen! Mama made her leave the house, and cut off Theodore'sallowance entirely, and for a while they were together--but it couldn'tlast. Teddy got his divorce when he went with Mama to California, but hewas ill then, though we didn't know it, poor boy! He lived five yearsafter that. "

"But he saw Leslie?"

"Oh, dear, yes!" Annie said, buffing her twinkling finger-nails, idly. "Didn't Mama ever tell you about that?"

"No, she never mentions it. "

"Well, that was awful, too--for poor Mama. About four years after thedivorce, one night when we were all at home--it was just after Mama andI came back from Europe, and the year before Hendrick and I weremarried--suddenly there was a rush in the hall, and in came Theodore'swife--Louison Courtot! It seems Mama had been in touch with her eversince we returned, but none of us knew that. And she had Leslie withher, a little thing about four years old--Leslie just faintly remembersit. She had fought Mama off, at first, about giving her baby up, but nowshe was going to be married, and she had finally consented to do as Mamawanted. Leslie came over to me, and got into my lap, and went to sleep, I remember. Theodore was terribly ill, and I remember that Louison wasquite gentle with him--surprised us all, in fact, she was so mild. Shehad been a wild thing, but always most self-respecting; a prude, infact. She even stooped over Theodore, and kissed him good-bye, and thenshe knelt down and kissed Leslie, and went away. Mama had intended thatshe should always see the child, if she wanted to, but she never cameagain. She was married, I know, a few weeks later, and long afterwardMama told me that she was dead. Ted came to adore the baby, and ofcourse she's been the greatest comfort to Mama, so it all turns outright, after all. But we're a sweet family!" finished Annie, rising togo downstairs. "And now, " she added, on the stairs, "if there were to beserious trouble between Acton and Leslie----Well, it isn't thinkable!"

Leslie herself, charming in a flowered silky dress, with a wide floweryhat on her yellow hair, was waiting for them in the big, shaded hallway. The little matron was extremely attractive in her new dignities, and herbabyish face looked more ridiculously youthful than ever as she talkedof "my husband, " "my little girl, " "my house, " and "my attorney. "

Leslie, like Annie and Alice, was habitually wrapped in her own affairs, more absorbed in the question of her own minute troubles than in themost widespread abuses of the world. When Leslie saw a coat, theidentity of the wearer interested her far less than the primaryconsiderations of the coat's cut and material, and the secondarydecision whether or not she herself would like such a garment. Consequently, she glanced but apathetically at Norma; she had seen thedotted blue swiss before, and the cornflower hat; she had seen AuntAnnie's French organdie; there was nothing there either to envy oradmire. 

"How's the baby, dear; and how's Acton?" Annie asked, perfunctorily. Leslie sighed. 

"Oh, they're both fine, " she answered, indifferently. "I've been allupset because my cook got married--just walked out. I told Acton not topay her, but of course he did; it's nothing to him if my whole house isupset by the selfishness of somebody else. He and Chris are going offthis afternoon with Joe and Denny Page, for the Thousand Islands----"

"I didn't know Chris was here!" Annie said, in surprise. 

"I didn't, myself. He came up with Acton, late last night. They'dmotored all the way; I was asleep when they got in. I didn't know ituntil I found him at breakfast this morning----"

Norma's heart stood still. The name alone was enough to shake her to thevery soul, but the thought that he was here--in Newport--this minute, and that she might not see him, probably indeed would not see him, madeher feel almost faint. 

She had not seen him since the meeting on the hotel steps nearly twoweeks ago. It had been the longest and the saddest two weeks in Norma'slife. It was in vain that she reminded herself that her love for himwas weakness and madness, and that by no possible shift ofcircumstances could it come to happy consummation. It was in vain thatshe pondered Alice's claims, and all the family claims, and the generalclaim of society as an institution. Deep and strong and unconquerableabove them all rose the tide of love and passion, the gnawing andburning hunger for the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the touchof his hand. 

Life had become for her a vague and changing dream, with his name forits only reality. Somewhere in the fog of days was Chris, and she wouldnot live again until she saw him. He must forgive her; he must explainhis coldness, explain the change in him, and then she would be contentjust with the old friendliness, just the old nearness and the occasionalword together. 

Every letter that Joseph brought her, every call to the telephone, meantto her only the poignant possibility of a message from him. She sickeneddaily with fresh despair, and fed herself daily with new hopes. 

To-day she was scarcely conscious of the hilarious progress of theluncheon; she looked at the prospective bride, in whose honour AuntAnnie entertained, only with a pang of wonder. What was it like, theknowledge that one was openly beloved, the miraculous right to plan anunclouded future together? The mere thought of being free to love Chris, of having him free to claim her, almost dizzied Norma with its vista ofutter felicity. She had to drive it resolutely from her mind. Notthat--never that! But there must at least be peace and friendshipbetween them. 

At three o'clock the luncheon was over; it was half-past three whenLeslie and she drove to the Melrose "cottage"--as the fourteen-room, three-story frame house was called. Norma had searched the drive withher eyes as they approached. The gray roadster was not there. There wasno sign of Christopher's hat or coat in the hallway. Alice was alone, inher downstairs sitting-room. Norma's heart sank like a lump of ice. 

"Did you see Chris?" the invalid began, happily. "We had the nicestlunch together--just we two. And look at the books the angel broughtme--just a feast. You saw him, Leslie, didn't you, dear? He said hecaught you and Acton at breakfast. I was perfectly amazed. Miss Slatermoved me out here about eleven o'clock, and I heard someone walkingin----! He's off now, with the Pages; he told you that, of course!"

"He looks rotten, I think, " Leslie offered. "I told him he was workingtoo hard. "

"Well, Judge Lee is sick, and he hasn't been in to the office sinceJune, " Alice said, "and that makes it very hard for Chris. But he sayshis room at the club is cool, and now he'll have two or three lovelydays with the Page boys----"

Norma, who had subsided quietly into a chair, was looking at the yellowcovers of the new French and Italian novels. 

"And then does he come back here Monday, for the tennis?" she asked, clearing her throat. 

"He says not!" Alice answered, regretfully. "He's going straight on downto the city. Then next week-end is the cruise with the Dwights; andafter that, I suppose we'll all be home!"

She went on into a conversation with Leslie, relative to the move. Aftera few moments Norma went out through the opened French window onto thewide porch. It was rather a dark, old-fashioned side porch, with anelaborate wooden railing, and potted hydrangeas under a striped awning. The house had neither the magnificence of Annie's gray-stone mansion orthe beauty of Leslie's colonial white and green at Glen Cove; it hadbeen built in the late eighties, and was inflexibly ornate. 

Norma went down slowly through the garden, and walked vaguely toward thehot glitter and roll of the blue sea. Her misery was almost unbearable. Weeks--it would be weeks before she would see him! He had been hereto-day--here in the garden--in Alice's room, and she had not had a wordor a sign. 

Children and nurses were on the beach, grouped in the warm shade. Theseason was over, there were yellow leaves in the hedges, Norma's feetrustled among the dropped glory of the old trees. The world seemed hot, dry, lifeless before her. 

"I wish I were dead!" she cried, passionately, for the first time in herlife. 

CHAPTER XXI

Suddenly and smoothly they were all transported to town again, and thevigour and sparkle of the autumn was exhilarating to Norma in spite ofherself. The Park was a glory of red and gold leaves; morning came late, and the dew shone until ten o'clock; bright mists rose smoking into thesunlight, and when Norma walked home from a luncheon, or from an hour offurious squash or tennis at the club, the early winter dusk would beclosing softly in, the mists returning, and the lights of the long Mallin the park blooming round and blue in the twilight. 

She was with Mrs. Melrose this winter, an arrangement extremely welcometo the old lady, who was lonely and liked the stir of young life in thehouse. Alice had quite charmingly and naturally suggested the change, and Norma's belongings had been moved away from the little white roomnext to Miss Slater's. 

One reason for it was that Alice had had two nurses all summer long, andfound the increased service a great advantage. Then Mama was all aloneand not so well as she had been; getting old, and reluctant to take eventhe necessary exercise. 

"And then you're too young to be shut up with stupid home-loving folklike Chris and me, " Alice had told Norma, lightly. 

"Your stupidity is proverbial, Aunt Alice, " Norma had laughed. She didnot care where she went any more. Chris had greeted her casually, upontheir meeting in October, and had studiously, if inconspicuously, ignored her. But even to see him at all was so great a relief to herover-charged heart that for weeks this was enough. She must meet himoccasionally, she heard his name every day, and she knew where he wasand what he was doing almost at every moment. She treasured every look, every phrase of his, and she glowed and grew beautiful in the convictionthat, even though he was still mysteriously angry with her, he had thatold consciousness of her presence, too; he might hate her, but he couldnot ignore her. 

And then, in December, the whole matter reached a sudden crisis, andNorma came to feel that she would have been glad to have the matter goback to this state of doubt and indecision again. 

Mrs. Von Behrens was on the directorate of a working girls' club thatneeded special funds every winter, and this year the money was to beraised by an immense entertainment, at which generous professionalsingers were to be alternated on a brilliant programme with societygirls and men, in tableaux and choruses. Norma, who had a charming ifnot particularly strong voice, was early impressed into service, becauseshe was so good-natured, so dependable, and pretty and young enough tocarry off a delectable costume. The song she sang had been speciallywritten for the affair, and in the quaint dance that accompanied it shewas drilled by the dance authority of the hour. A chorus of eight girlsand eight men was added to complete the number, and the gaiety of therehearsals, and the general excitement and interest, carried the matteralong to the last and dress rehearsal with a most encouraging rush. 

Annie had originally selected Chris for Norma's companion in the song, for Chris had a pleasant, presentable voice, and Chris in costume wasalways adequate to any rôle. Theatricals had been his delight, all hislife long, and among the flattering things that were commonly said ofChris was that he had robbed the stage of a great character actor. 

But Chris had begged off, to take a minor part in another _ensemble_, and Norma had a youth named Roy Gillespie for her partner. Roy was abig, fat, blond boy, good-natured and stupid and rather in love withNorma, and as the girl was entirely unconscious of Annie's originalplan, she was quite satisfied with him. 

The dress rehearsal was on a dark Thursday afternoon before the Saturdayof the performance. It took place in the big empty auditorium, where itwas to drag along from twelve o'clock noon, until the preparations forthe regular evening performance drove the amateurs, protesting, away. Snow was fluttering down over the city when Annie, with Norma, and alimousine full of properties, reached the place at noon; motor-cars werewheeling and crowding in the side street, and it seemed to Normathrilling to enter so confidently at the big, dirty, sheet-iron doorlettered:

 "STAGE DOOR. NO ADMITTANCE. "

As always to the outsider, the wings, the shabby dressing-rooms, thenovel feeling of sauntering across the big, dim stage, the gloom of thegreat rising arch of the house, were full of charm. Voices and hammerswere sounding in the gloom; somebody was talking hard while he fitfullyplayed the piano; girls were giggling and fluttering about; footlightsflashed up and down, in the front rows of seats a few mothers and maidshad gathered. There was the sweet, strong smell of some spicydisinfectant, and obscure figures, up the aisles, were constantlysweeping and stooping. 

Annie had a chair in a wing. Her small fur hat and trim suit had beenselected for comfort; her knees were crossed, and she had a sheaf ofsongs, a pencil, and various note-books in her hands. She was alert, serious, authoritative; her manner expressed an anxious certainty thateverything that could possibly go wrong was about to do so. Menprotested jovially to Annie, girls whimpered and complained, maidsdelivered staggering messages into her ear. Annie frowningly yetsympathetically sent them all away, one by one; persisted that therehearsal proceed. Never mind the hat, we could get along without thehat; never mind Dixie Jadwin, someone could read her part; never mindthis, never mind that; go on, go on--we must get on!

At five o'clock she was very tired, and Norma, fully arrayed, was tired, too. The girl had been sitting on a barrel for almost an hour, patientlywaiting for the tardy Mr. Roy Gillespie to arrive, and permit theirparticular song to be rehearsed. Everything that could be done in theway of telephoning had been done: Mr. Gillespie had left his office, hewas expected momentarily at his home, he should be given the messageimmediately. Nothing to do but wait. 

Suddenly Norma's heart jumped to her throat, began to hammer wildly. Aman had come quietly in between her and Annie, and she heard the voicethat echoed in her heart all day and all night. It was Chris. 

He did not see her, perhaps did not recognize her in a casual glance, and began to talk to his sister-in-law in low, quick tones. Almostimmediately Annie exclaimed in consternation, and called Norma. 

"Norma! Chris tells me that poor old Mr. Gillespie died this afternoon. _That's_ what's been the matter. What on earth are we to do now? Ideclare it's _too_ much!"

Norma got off her barrel. The great lighted stage seemed to be movingabout her as she went to join them. 

What Chris saw strained his tried soul to its utmost of endurance. Hehad not permitted himself to look at her squarely for weeks. Now therewas a new look, a look a little sad, a little wistfully expectant, inthe lovely face. Her eyes burned deeply blue above the touch of rougeand the crimson lips. Her dark, soft hair fell in loose ringlets on hershoulders from under the absurd little tipped and veiled hat of the lateseventies. Her gown, a flowered muslin, moved and tilted with a gentle, shaking majesty over hoop skirts, and was crossed on the low shouldersby a thin silk shawl whose long fringes were tangled in her mittedfingers. The white lace stockings began where the loose lace pantalettesstopped, and disappeared into flat-heeled kid slippers. Norma carried abright nosegay in lace paper, and on her breast a thin gold locket hungon a velvet ribbon. 

She herself had been completely captivated by the costume when MadameModiste had first suggested it, and when the first fittings began. Butthat was weeks ago, and she was accustomed to it now, and conscious inthis instant of nothing but Chris, conscious of nothing but thepossibility that he would have a word or a smile, at last, for her. 

"Stay right here, both of you--don't move a step--while I telephoneLucia Street!" said the harassed Annie, her eyes glittering with somedesperate hope. She hurried away; they were alone. 

"Poor old Roy--he adored his father!" Chris said, with dry lips, and ina rather unnatural voice. Norma, for one second, simulated meresympathy. Then with a rush the pride and hurt that had sustained herever since that weary September evening in the hotel lobby vanished, andshe came close to Chris, so that the fragrance and sweetness of herenveloped him, and caught his coat with both her mitted hands, andraised her face imploringly, commandingly to his. 

"Chris--for God's sake--what have I done? Don't you know--don't you knowthat you're killing me?"

He looked down at her, wretchedly. And suddenly Norma knew. Not that heliked her, not that she fascinated and interested him, not that theywere friends. But that he loved her with every fibre of his being, evenas she loved him. 

The revelation carried her senses away with it upon a raging sea ofemotion and ecstasy. He drew her into a dim corner of the wings, and puthis arms about her, and her whole slender body, in its tilting hoops, strained backward under the passion and fury of his first embrace. Againand again his lips met hers, and she heard the incoherent outpouring ofmurmured words, and felt the storm that shook him as it was shaking her. Norma, after the first kiss, grew limp, let herself rest almost withoutmovement in his arms, shut her eyes. 

Reason came back to them slowly; the girl almost rocking upon her feetas the vertigo and bewilderment passed, and the man sustaining her withan arm about her shoulders, neither looking at the other. So severalseconds, perhaps a full minute, went by, while the world settled intoplace about them; the dingy, unpainted wood of the wings, the near-bystage where absorbed groups of people were still coming and going, thedistant gloom of the house. 

"So now you know!" Chris said, breathlessly, panting, and looking awayfrom her, with his hands hanging at his sides. "Now you know! I've triedto keep it from you! But now--now you know!"

Norma, also breathing hard, did not answer for a little space. 

"I've known since that time we were in town, in September!" she said, almost defiantly. Chris looked toward her, surprised, and their eyesmet. "I've known what was the matter with _me_, " she added, thoughtfully, even frowning a little in her anxiety to make it allclear, "but I couldn't imagine what it was with _you_!"

But this brought him to face her, so close that she felt the same senseof drowning, of losing her footing, again. 

"Chris--please!" she whispered, in terror. 

"But, Norma--say it! Say that you love me--that's all that matters now!I've been losing my mind, I think. I've been losing my mind. Justthat--that you do care!"

"I have----" Tears came to her lifted blue eyes, and she brushed themaway without moving her gaze from him. "I think I have always loved you, Chris--from the very first, " she whispered. 

Instantly she saw his expression change. It was as if, with thatrevelation, a new responsibility began for him. 

"Here, dear, you mustn't cry!" he said, composedly. He gave her hishandkerchief, helped her set the tipped hat and lace veil straight, smiled reassurance and courage into her eyes. "I'll see you, Norma--we'll talk, " he said. "Oh, my God, to talk to you again! Come, now, we'll have to be here when Annie comes back--that's right. I--Ilove the little gown--terribly sweet. I haven't seen it before, youknow; my crowd has done all its rehearsing at Mrs. Hitchcock's. Here'sAnnie now----"

"Christopher, " said Annie, in deadly, almost angry earnest, as she cameup desperate and weary, "you'll have to sing this thing with Norma. Burgess Street absolutely refuses. He's in the chorus, and he sings, buthe simply won't do a solo! His mother says he has a cold, and so on, andI swear I'll throw the whole thing up; I will, indeed!--rather than havethis number ruined. There's no earthly reason why you can't do both--ofcourse the poor old man couldn't help dying--but if you knew----"

"My dear girl, of course I'll do it!" All the youth and buoyancy thathad been missing from his voice for weeks had come back. Christopherlaughed his old delightful laugh. "I'll have to have Roy's costume cutdown, but Smithers will do it for me. I'll do my very best----"

"Oh, Chris, God bless you, " Annie said. "You'll do it better than heever did. Take my car and stop for his suit, and express whatever'sdecent--the funeral will be Saturday morning and we'll all have to go, but there's no help for it. And come to my house for dinner, and you andNorma can go over it afterward; you poor girl, you're tired out, butit's such a Godsend to have Chris fill in. And it will be the prettiestnumber of all. "

Tired out? The radiant girl who was tripping away to change to streetattire was hardly conscious that her feet touched the ground. The stage, the theatre, the fur coat into which she buttoned herself, the fragranceof the violets she wore, were all touched with beauty and enchantment. 

Snow was still falling softly, when she and Annie went out to the car. Annie was so exhausted that she could hardly move, but Norma floatedabove things mortal. The dark sidewalk was powdered with what scrunchedunder their shoes like dry sugar, and up against the lighted sky theflakes were twirling and falling. The air was sweet and cold and pureafter the hot theatre. Chris put them in the motor-car. He would see histailor, have a bite of dinner at home, and be at Annie's at eighto'clock for the rehearsal. 

"I'll do something for you, for this, Norma!" her aunt assured the girl, gratefully. Norma protested in a voice that was almost singing. It wasnothing at all!

She felt suddenly happy and light. It was all right; there was to be nomore agony and doubt. Alice should lose nothing, the world should knownothing, but Chris loved her! She could take his friendship fearlessly, there would be nothing but what was good and beautiful and true betweenthem. But what a changed world!

What a changed room it was into which she danced, to brush her hair fordinner, and laugh into her mirror, where the happy girl with starry eyesand blazing cheeks laughed back. What a changed dinner table, at whichthe old lady drowsed and cooed! Norma's blood was dancing, her head wasin a whirl, she was hardly conscious that this soaring and singing soulof hers had a body. 

At eight she and Mrs. Melrose went to Mrs. Von Behrens's, and Norma andChris went through the song again and again and again, for the benefitof a small circle of onlookers. Hendrick, who had sworn that wild horseswould not drag him to the entertainment, sat with a small son in hislap, and applauded tirelessly. Annie criticized and praised alternately. Mrs. Melrose went to sleep, and Annie's new secretary, a small, lean, dark girl of perhaps twenty-two, passionately played the music. Normaknew exactly how this girl felt, how proud she was of her position, howanxious to hold it, and how infinitely removed from her humble strugglethe beautiful Miss Sheridan seemed! Yet she herself had been much thesame less than two years ago!

Norma could have laughed aloud. She envied no one to-night. The mysteryand miracle of Chris's love for her was like an ermine mantle about hershoulders, and like a diadem upon her brows. Annie was delighted withher, and presently told her she had never before sung so well. 

"I suppose practice makes perfect!" the girl answered, innocently. Shewas conscious of no hypocrisy. No actress enjoying a long-coveted partcould have rejoiced in every word and gesture more than she. Just tomove, under his eyes, to laugh or to be serious, to listen dutifully toAnnie and the old lady, to flirt with Baby Piet, was ecstasy enough. 

They had small opportunity for asides. But that was of no consequence. All the future was their own. They would see each other to-morrow--ornext day; it did not matter. Norma's hungry heart had something toremember, now--a very flood-tide of memories. She could have lived forweeks upon this one day's memories. 

Norma and Chris were placed toward the centre of the first half of theprogramme on the triumphant Saturday night, and could escape from thetheatre before eleven o'clock to go home to tell Alice all about it. Chris played the song, on his own piano, and Norma modestly andcharmingly went through it again, to the invalid's great satisfaction. Alice, when Norma and her mother were gone, tried to strike a spark ofenthusiasm from her husband as to the girl's beauty and talent, butChris was pleasantly unresponsive. 

"She got through it very nicely; they all did!" Chris admitted, indifferently. 

"When you think of the upbringing she had, Chris, a little namelessnobody, " Alice pursued. "When you think that until last year she hadactually never seen a finger-bowl, or spoken to a servant!"

"Exactly!" Chris said, briefly. Alice, who was facing the fire, did notsee him wince. She was far from suspecting that he had at that moment aluncheon engagement for the next day with Norma, and that during theweeks that followed they met by appointment almost every day, andfrequently by chance more often than that. 

CHAPTER XXII

In the beginning, these were times brimful of happiness for Norma. Shewould meet Chris far down town, among the big, cold, snowboundoffice-buildings, and they would loiter for two hours at someinconspicuous table in a restaurant, and come wandering out into thecold streets still talking, absorbed and content. Or she would risebefore him from a chair in one of the foyers of the big hotels, at teatime, and they would find an unobserved corner for the murmur that roseand fell, rose and fell inexhaustibly. Tea and toast unobserved beforethem, music drifting unheard about them, furred and fragrant womencoming and going; all this was but the vague setting for their ownthrilling drama of love and confidence. They would come out into thedarkness, Norma tucking herself beside him in the roadster, lastpromises and last arrangements made, until to-morrow. 

Sometimes the girl even accompanied him to Alice's room, to sit at theinvalid's knee, and chatter with a tact and responsiveness that Alicefound an improvement upon her old amusing manner. So free was Norma inthese days from any sense of guilt that she felt herself nothing butgenerous toward Alice, in sparing the older woman some of the excess ofjoy and companionship in which she was so rich. 

But very swiftly the first complete satisfaction in the discovery oftheir mutual love began to wane, or rather to be overset with thedifficulties by which Norma, and many another more brilliant and olderwoman, must inevitably be worsted. Her meetings with Chris, innocent andopen as they seemed, were immediately threatened by the sordid danger ofscandal. To meet him once, twice, half-a-dozen times, even, was safeenough. But when each day of separation became for them both only anagony of waiting until the next day that should unite them, and when allNorma's self-control was not enough to keep her from the telephonesummons that at least gave her the sound of his voice, then the worldbegan to be cognizant that something was in the air. 

The very maids at Mrs. Melrose's house knew that Miss Sheridan was neveravailable any more, never to be traced to the club, to young Mrs. Liggett's, or to Mrs. Von Behrens's house, with a telephone message oran urgent letter. Leslie knew that Norma hated girls' luncheons; Annieasked Hendrick idly why he supposed the child was always taking longwalks--or saying that she took long walks--and Hendrick, laterspeculating himself as to the inaccessibility of Chris, was perhaps thefirst in the group to suspect the truth. 

A quite accidental and innocent hint from Annie overwhelmed Norma withshame and terror, and she and Chris, in earnest consultation, decidedthat they must be more discreet. But this was slow and difficult work, after the radiant first plunge into danger. Despite their utmostresolution, Chris would find her out, Norma would meet him halfway, andeven under Leslie's very eyes, or in old Mrs. Melrose's actual presence, the telephone message, or the quicker signals of eyes and smile, wouldforge the bond afresh. 

Even when Norma really did start off heroically upon a bracing winterwalk, determined to shake off, in solitude and exercise, the constanthunger for his presence, torturing possibilities would swarm into hermind, and weaken her almost while she thought them banished. She couldcatch him at his club; she might have just five minutes of him did shechoose to telephone. 

Perhaps she would resist the temptation, and go home nervous, high-strung, excitable--the evening stretching endlessly beforeher--without him. Aunt Annie and Hendrick coming, Leslie and Actoncoming, the prospect of the decorous family dinner would drive heralmost to madness. She would dress in a feverish dream, answer old Mrs. Melrose absently or impatiently, speculating all the time about him. Where was he? When would they meet again?

And then perhaps Leslie would casually remark that Chris had said hewould join them for coffee, or Joseph would summon her gravely to thetelephone. Then Norma began to live again, the effect of the lonely walkand the heroic resolutions swept away, nothing--nothing was in the worldbut the sound of that reassuring voice, or the prospect of that ring atthe bell, and that step in the hall. 

So matters went on for several weeks, but they were weeks of increasinguneasiness and pain for Norma, and she knew that Chris found them evenless endurable than she. The happy hours of confidence and happinessgrew fewer and fewer, and as their passion strengthened, and theinsuperable obstacles to its natural development impressed them more andmore forcibly, miserable and anxious times took their place. Their lovewas no sooner acknowledged than both came to realize how mad andhopeless it was, and that no reiteration of its intensity and noargument could ever give them a gleam of hope. 

If Norma had drifted cheerfully and recklessly into this situation, shepaid for it now, when petty restrictions and conventions stung her likeso many bees, and when she could turn nowhere for relief from constantheartache and the sickening monotony of her thoughts. She could not haveChris; she could not give him up. Hours with him were only a degree morebearable than hours without him. 

When he spoke hopefully of a possible change, of "something" makingtheir happiness possible, she would turn on him like a little virago. Yet if he despaired, tears would come to Norma's eyes, and she would beghim almost angrily to change his tone, or she would disgrace them bothby beginning to cry. 

Norma grew thin and fidgety, able to concentrate her mind onnothing, and openly indifferent to the society she had courted soenthusiastically a year ago. It was a part of her suffering that shegrew actually to dislike Alice, always so suave and cheerful, always soserenely sure of Chris's devotion. What right had this woman, who hadbeen rich and spoiled and guarded all her life, to hold him away fromthe woman he loved? Chris had been chained to this couch for years, reading, playing his piano, infinitely solicitous and sympathetic. Butwas he to spend all his life thus? Was there to be no gloriouscompanionship, no adventure, no deep and satisfying love for Chris, everin this world? Norma wished no ill to Alice, but she hated a world thatcould hold Alice's claim legitimate. 

"Why should it be so?" she said to Chris one day, bitterly. "Why, whenall my life was going so happily, did I have to fall in love with you, Iwonder? It could so easily have been somebody else!"

"I don't know!" Chris answered, soberly, flinging away his half-finishedcigarette, and folding his arms over his chest, as he stared through ascreen of bare trees at the river. It was a March day of warm airs andbursting buds; the roads were running water, and every bank and meadowoozed the thawing streams, but there was no green yet. Chris had comefor the girl at three o'clock, just as she was starting out for one ofher aimless, unhappy tramps, and had carried her off for atwenty-five-mile run to the quiet corner of the tavern's porch inTarrytown where they were having tea. "I suppose that's just life. Things go so rottenly, sometimes!"

Norma's eyes watered as she pushed the untasted toast away from her, cupped her chin in her hands, and stared at the river in her turn. 

"Chris, if I could go back, I think I'd never speak to you!" she said, wretchedly. 

"You mustn't say that, " he reproached her. "My darling; surely it'sbrought you some happiness?"

"I suppose so, " Norma conceded, lifelessly, after a silence. "But Ican't go on!" she protested, suddenly. "I can't keep this up! I supposeI've done something very wicked, to be punished this way. But, Chris, Iloved you from the very first day I ever saw you, in Biretta'sBookstore, I think. I can't sleep, " she stammered, piteously, "and I amso afraid all the time!"

"Afraid of what?" the man asked, very low. 

She faced him, honestly. 

"You know what! Of you--of me. It can't go on. You know that. Andyet----" And Norma looked far away, her beautiful weary eyes burning inher white face. "And yet, I can't stop it!" she whispered. 

"Oh, Chris, don't let's fool ourselves!" she interrupted his protestimpatiently. "Weeks ago, _weeks_ ago!--we said that we would see eachother less, that it would taper off. We tried. It's no use! If we werein different cities--in different families, even! I tell myself that itwill grow less and less, " she added presently, as the man watched her insilence, "but oh, my God!--how long the years ahead look!"

And Norma put her head down on the table, pressed her white fingerssuddenly against her eyes with a gesture infinitely desolate anddespairing, and he knew that she was in tears. Then there was a longsilence. 

"Look here, Norma, " said Chris, suddenly, in a quiet, reasonable tone. "I am thirty-eight. I've had affairs several times in my life, two orthree before I married Alice, two or three since. They've never beenvery serious, never gone very deep. When we were married I wastwenty-four. I know women like to pretend that I'm an awful killer whenI get going, " he interrupted himself to say boyishly, "but there wasreally never anything of that sort in my life. I liked Alice, I remembermy mother talking to me a long time, and telling me how pleased everyonewould be if we came to care for each other, and--upon my honour!--I wasmore surprised than anything else, to think that any one so pretty andsweet would marry me! I don't think there's a woman in the world that Iadmire more. But, Norma, I've lived her life for ten years. I want myown now! I want my companion--my chum--my wife. I've played with womensince I was seventeen. But I never loved any woman before. Norma, there's no life ahead for me, without you. And there's no place sofar--so lonely--so strange--but what it would be heaven for me if youwere there, looking at me as you are now, and with this little handwhere it belongs! My dear, the city is a blank--the men I meet mightjust as well be wooden Indians; I can't breathe and I can't eat orsleep. Get better? It gets worse! It can't go on!"

She was crying again. They were almost alone now. A red spring sun wassinking, far down the river, and all the world--the opposite shores, therunning waters of the Hudson--was bathed in the exquisite glow. Normafumbled with her left hand for her little handkerchief, her right handclinging tight to Chris's hand. 

"Now, Norma, I've been thinking, " the man said, in a matter-of-facttone, after a pause. "The first consideration is, that this sort ofthing can't go on!"

"No; this can't go on!" she agreed, quickly. "Every day makes it moredangerous, and less satisfying! I never"--her eyes watered again--"Inever have a happy second!" she said. 

Chris looked at her, looked thoughtfully away. 

"The great trouble with the way I feel to you, Norma, " he said, quietly, "is that it seems to blot every other earthly consideration from view. Isee nothing, I think nothing, I hear nothing--but you!"

"And is that so terrible?" Norma asked, touched, and smiling throughtears. 

"No, it is so wonderful, " he answered, gravely, "that it blinds me. Itblinds me to your youth, my dear, your inexperience--your faith in me!It makes me only remember that I need you--and want you--and that Ibelieve I could make you the happiest woman in the world!"

The faint shadow of a frown crossed her forehead, and she slowly shookher head. 

"Not divorce!" she said, lightly, but inflexibly. They had been overthis ground before. "No, there's no use in thinking of that! Even if itwere not for Aunt Alice, and Aunt Marianna, other things make itimpossible. You see that, Chris? Yes, I know!"--she interrupted herselfquickly, as Chris protested, "I know what plenty of good people, and thelaw, and society generally think. But of course it would mean that wecould not live here for awhile, anyway! No--that's not thinkable!"

"No, that's not thinkable, " he agreed, slowly; "I am bound hand andfoot. It isn't only what Alice--as a wife--claims from me. But there areActon and Leslie; there is hardly a month that my brother doesn'tpropose some plan that would utterly wreck their affairs if I didn't putmy foot down. They're both absolute children in money matters; Judge Leeis getting old--there's no one to take my place. Your Aunt Marianna, too; I've always managed everything for her. No; I'm tied. "

His voice fell. For awhile they sat silent, in the lingering, coolspring twilight, while the red glow faded slowly from the river, andfrom the opposite banks where houses and roofs showed between the baretrees. 

"But what can we do, Norma? I've tried--I've tried a thousand times, tosee the future, without you. But I simply can't go on living on thoseterms. There's nothing--nothing--nothing! I go to the piano, and beforeI touch a note, the utter blank futility of it comes over me and sickensme! It's the same in the office, and at the club; I seem to be only halfalive. If it could be even five years ahead--or ten years ahead--I wouldwait. But it's never--never. No hope--nothing to live for! Life issimply over--only one doesn't die. "

The girl had never heard quite this note of despair from him before, andher heart sank. 

"You are young, " he said, after a minute, and in a lighter tone, "andperhaps--some day----"

"No, don't believe that, Chris, " Norma said, quietly. And with a gesturefull of pain she leaned her elbow on the table, and pressed her handacross her eyes. "There will never be anybody else!" she said. "Howcould there be? You are the only person--like yourself!--that I haveever known!"

The simplicity of her words, almost their childishness, made Chris'seyes smart. He bit his lips, trying to smile. 

"It's too bad, isn't it?" he said, whimsically. 

Norma flung back her head, swallowing tears. She gathered gloves andhand-bag, got to her feet. He followed her as she walked across thedarkening porch. They went down to the curving sweep of driveway wherethe car waited, the big lighted eyes of other cars picking it out in thegloom. The saturated ground gave under Norma's feet, the air was softand full of the odorous promise of blossom and leaf. A great star wastrembling in the opal sky, which still palpitated, toward the horizon, with the pale pink and blue of the sunset. Dry branches clicked abovetheir heads, in a sudden soft puff of breeze. 

Norma, as she tucked herself in beside Chris, felt emotionallyexhausted, felt a sudden desperate need for solitude and silence. Theworld seemed a lonely and cruel place. 

Almost without a word he drove her home, to the old Melrose house, andcame in with her to the long, dim drawing-room for a brief good-night. He had not kissed her more than two or three times since the memorablenight of the dress rehearsal, but he kissed her to-night, and Norma feltsomething solemn, something renunciatory, in the kiss. 

They had but an unsatisfactory two or three minutes together; Mrs. Melrose might descend upon them at any second, was indeed audible in thehall when Chris said suddenly:

"You are not as brave--as your mother, Norma!"

She met his eyes with something like terror in her own; standing still, a few feet away from him, with her breath coming and going stormily. 

"No, " she said in a sharp whisper. "Not _that_!"

A moment later she was flying upstairs, her blue eyes still dilated withfright, her face pale, and her senses rocking. Unseeing, unhearing, shereached her own room, paced it distractedly, moving between desk anddressing-table, window and bed, like some bewildered animal. Sometimesshe put her two hands over her face, the spread fingers pressed againsther forehead. Sometimes she stood perfectly still, arms hanging at hersides, eyes blankly staring ahead. Once she dropped on her knees besidethe bed, and buried her burning cheeks against the delicate linen andembroideries. 

Regina came in; Norma made a desperate attempt to control herself. Shesaw a gown laid on the bed, heard bath water running, faced her ownhaggard self in the mirror, as she began dressing. But when the maid wasgone, and Norma, somewhat pale, but quite self-possessed again, wasdressed for dinner, she lifted from its place on her book-shelf a littlepicture of Chris and herself, taken the summer before, and studied itwith sorrowful eyes. 

He had been teaching her to ride, and Norma was radiant and sun-brownedin her riding-trousers and skirted coat, her cloud of hair loosened, andher smart little hat in one hand. Chris, like all well-built men, wasalways at his best in sports clothes; the head of his favourite marelooked mildly over his shoulder. Behind the group stretched theexquisite reaches of bridle-path, the great trees heavy with summerfoliage and heat. 

Norma touched her lips to the glass. 

"Chris--Chris--Chris!" she said, half aloud. "I love you so--and I havebrought you, of all men, to this! To the point when you would throw itall aside--everything your wonderful and generous life has stoodfor--for me! God, " said Norma, softly, putting the picture down, andcovering her face with her hands, "don't let me do anything that willhurt him and shame him; help me! Help us both!"

A few minutes later she went down to dinner, which commencedauspiciously, with the old lady in a gracious and expansive mood, andher guests, old Judge Lee and his wife, and old Doctor and Mrs. Turner, sufficiently intimate, and sufficiently reminiscent, to absolve Normafrom any conversational duty. The girl could follow her own line ofheroic and resolute thought uninterruptedly. 

But with the salad came utter rout again, and Norma's colour, and heart, and breath, began to fluctuate in a renewed agony of hope and fear. Itwas only Joseph, leaning deferentially over Judge Lee's shoulder, whosaid softly:

"Mr. Christopher Liggett, Judge. He has telephoned that he would like tosee you for a moment after dinner, and will be here at about nineo'clock. "

The dinner went on, for Norma, in a daze. At a quarter to nine she wentupstairs; she was standing in the dark upper hallway at the window whenChris came, saw him leave his car, and come quickly across the sidewalkunder the bare, moving boughs of the old maples. She was trembling withthe longing just to speak to him again, just to hear his voice. 

She went to her room, rang for Regina, meditating a message ofgood-night that should include a headache as excuse. But before the maidcame she went quickly downstairs, and into his presence, asinstinctively as a drowning man might cling to anything that meantair--just the essential air. They could not exchange a word alone, butthat was not important. The one necessity was to be together. 

Before ten o'clock Norma went back to her room. She undressed, and puton a loose warm robe, and seated herself before the old-fashionedfireplace. When Regina came, she asked the girl to put out all thelights. 

Voices floated up from the front hall: the great entrance door closed, the motors wheeled away. The guests were gone--Chris was gone. Normaheard old Mrs. Melrose come upstairs, heard her door shut, then therewas silence. 

Silence. Eleven struck from Madison Tower; midnight struck. Even thestreets were quieter now. The squares of moonlight shifted on Norma'sfloor, went away. The fire died down, the big room was warm, and dim, and very still. 

Hugged in her warm wrap, curled into her big chair, the girl sat likesome tranced creature, thinking--thinking--thinking. 

At first her thoughts were of terror and shame. In what fool's paradisehad she been drifting, she asked herself contemptuously, that she andChris, reasonable, right-thinking man and woman, could be reduced tothis fearful and wretched position, could even consider--even name--whattheir sane senses must shrink from in utter horror! Norma was buttwenty-two, but she knew that there was only one end to that road. 

So that way was closed, even to the brimming tide that rose up in herwhen she thought of it, and flooded her whole being with the ecstaticrealization of her love for Chris, and of what surrender to him wouldmean. 

That way was closed. She must tell herself over and over. For her ownsake, for the sake of Aunt Kate and Aunt Marianna, for Rose even, shemust not think of that. Above all, for his sake--for Chris, the fine, good, self-sacrificing Chris of her first friendship, she must bestrong. 

And Norma, at this point in her circling and confused thoughts, woulddrop her face in the crook of her bent arm, and the tears would brimover again and again. She was not strong. She could not be strong. Andshe was afraid. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Regina, coming through the hallway at seven o'clock, was amazed toencounter Miss Sheridan, evidently fresh from a bath, a black hat tippedover her smiling eyes, and her big fur coat belted about her. Norma'svigil had lasted until after two o'clock, but then she had had fourhours of restful sleep, for she knew that she had found the way. 

She left a message with Regina for Mrs. Melrose; she was going to Mrs. Sheridan's, and would telephone in a day or two. Smiling, she slippedout into the quiet street, where the autumn sunlight was just beginningto strike across the damp pavements, and smilingly she disappeared intothe great currents of men and women who were already pouring to and froalong the main thoroughfares. 

But she did not go quite as far as her aunt's, after all. For perhapsfifteen minutes she waited on the corner of the block, walking slowly toand fro, watching the house closely. 

Then Wolf Sheridan came out, and set off at his usual brisk walk towardthe subway. Norma stepped before him, trembling and smiling. 

"Nono--for the Lord's sake! Where did you come from?"

He took her suit-case from her as she caught his arm, drew him aside, and looked up at him with her old childish air of coaxing. 

"Wolf----! I've been waiting for you. Wolf, I'm in trouble!" She laughedat his concern. "Not real trouble!" she reassured him, quickly. "But--but----"

And suddenly tears came, and she found she could not go on. 

"Is it a man?" Wolf asked, looking down at her with everything that wasbrotherly and kind in his young face. 

"Yes, " Norma answered, not raising her eyes from the overcoat buttonthat she was pushing in and out of its hold. "Wolf, " she added, quickly, "I'm afraid of him, and afraid of myself! You--you told me monthsago----" She looked up, suffocating. 

"I know what I told you!" Wolf said, clearing his throat. 

"And--do you still feel--that way?"

"You know I do, Norma, " Wolf said, more concerned for her emotion thanhis own. "Do you--do you want me to send this--this fellow about hisbusiness?"

"Oh, no!" she said, laughing nervously. "I don't want any one to knowit; nobody must dream it! I can't marry him, I shall never marry him. But--he won't let me alone. Wolf----" She seemed to herself to begetting no nearer her point, and now she seized her courage in bothhands, and looked up at him bravely. "Will you--take care of me?" shefaltered. "I mean--I mean as your wife?"

"Do you mean----" Wolf began. Then his expression changed, and hiscolour rose. "Norma--you don't mean that!"

"Yes, but I do!" she said, exquisite and flushed and laughing, in thesweet early sunlight. 

"You mean that you will marry me?" Wolf asked, dazedly. 

"To-day!" she answered, fired by his look of awe and amazement andrapture all combined. "I want to be safe, " she added, quickly. "I trustyou more than any other man I know--I've loved you like a little sisterall my life. "

"Ah--Norma, you darling--you darling!" he said. "But are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure!" Norma turned him toward Broadway, her little armlinked wife-fashion in his. "Don't we go along together nicely?" sheasked, gaily. 

"Norma--my God! If you knew how I love you--how I've longed for you! ButI can't believe it; I never will believe it! What made you do it?"

Her face sobered for a second. 

"Just needing you, I suppose! Wolf"--her colour rose--"I want you toknow who it is; it's Chris. "

"Who--the man who annoys you?" Wolf asked in healthy distaste. 

"The man I'm afraid of, " she answered, honestly. 

"But--Lord!" Wolf exclaimed, simply, "he has a wife!"

"I know it!" the girl said, quickly. "But I wanted you to know. I wantyou to know why I'm running away from them all. " Relief rang in hervoice as his delighted eyes showed no cloud. "That's all!" she said. 

"Norma, I can't--my God!--I can't tell whether I'm awake or dreaming!"Wolf was all joy again. "We'll--wait a minute!--we'll get a taxi; I'lltelephone the factory later----" He paused suddenly. "Mother's in EastOrange with Rose. Shall we go there first?"

"No; you're to do as I say from now on, Wolf!"

"Ah, you darling!"

"And I say let's be married first, and then go and see Rose. "

"Norma----" He stopped in the street, and put his two hands on hershoulders. "I'll be a good husband to you. You'll never be sorry youtrusted me. Dearest, it's--well, it's the most wonderful thing that everhappened in my whole life! Here's our taxi--wait a minute; what day isthis?"

"Whatever else it is, " she said, half-laughing and half-crying, "I knowit is my wedding day!"

CHAPTER XXIV

To Rose and her mother, Wolf's and Norma's marriage remained one of thebeautiful surprises of life; one of the things that, as sane mortals, they had dared neither to dream nor hope. Life had been full enough formother and daughter, and sweet enough, that March morning, even withoutthe miracle. The baby had been bathed, in a flood of dancing sunshine, and had had his breakfast out under the budding bare network of thegrape arbour. The little house had been put into spotless order while heslept, and Rose had pinned on her winter hat, and gone gaily to market, with exactly one dollar and seventy-five cents in her purse. And she hadcome back to find her mother standing beside the shabby baby-coach, inthe tiny backyard, looking down thoughtfully at the sleeping child, andevidently under the impression that she was peeling the apples, in theyellow bowl that rested on her broad hip. Rose had also studied her sonfor a few awed seconds, and then, reminding her mother that it was pasttwelve o'clock, had led the way toward tea-making, and the generalheating and toasting and mincing of odds and ends for luncheon. And theyhad been in the kitchen, talking over the last scraps of this meal, when----

When there had been laughter and voices at the open front doorway, andwhen Mrs. Sheridan's startled "Wolf!" had been followed by Rose'ssurprised "Norma!" Then they had come in, Wolf and Norma, laughing andexcited and bubbling with their great news. And in joy and tears, confused interruptions and exclamations, explanations that got nowhere, and a plentiful distribution of kisses, somehow it got itself told. Theyhad been married an hour ago--Norma was Wolf's wife!

The girl was radiant. Never in her life had these three who loved herseen her so beautiful, so enchantingly confident and gay. Rose and hermother had some little trouble, later on, in patching the sequence ofevents together for the delighted but bewildered Harry, Rose's husband. But there could be no doubt, even to the shrewd eyes of her Aunt Kate, that Norma was ecstatically happy. Her mad kisses for Rose, the laughterwith which she described the expedition to bank and jeweller, thelicense bureau and the church in Jersey City--for in order to have theceremony performed immediately it had been necessary to be married inNew Jersey--her delicious boldness toward the awed and rapturous andalmost stupefied Wolf, were all proof that she entertained not even theusual girlish misgivings of the wedding day. 

"You see, I've not been all tired out with trousseau and engagementaffairs and photographers and milliners and all that, " she explained, gaily. "I've only got what's in my bag there, but I've wired AuntMarianna, and told her to tell them all. And we'll be back onMonday--wait until I ask my husband; Wolftone, dear, shall we be back onMonday?"

She had the baby in her lap; they were all in the dining-room. Rose hadbeen assured that the bride and groom were not hungry; they had hadsandwiches somewhere--some time--oh, down near the City Hall in JerseyCity. But Rose had made more tea, and more toast, and she had opened herown best plum jam, and they were all eating with the heartiness ofchildren. Presently Norma went to get in Aunt Kate's lap, and asked herif she was glad, and made herself so generally engaging and endearing, with her slender little body clasped in the big motherly arms and hersoft face resting against the older, weather-beaten face, that Wolf didnot dare to look at her. 

They were going to Atlantic City; neither had ever been there, and ifthis warm weather lasted it would be lovely, even in early spring. Itwas almost four o'clock when the younger women went upstairs for thefreshening touches that Norma declared she needed, and then Wolf and hismother were left alone. 

He knelt down beside the big rocker in which she was ensconced with thebaby, and she put one arm about him, and kissed the big thick crest ofhis brown hair. 

"You're glad, aren't you, Mother?"

"Glad! I've prayed for it ever since she came to me, years ago, " Mrs. Sheridan answered. But after a moment she added, gravely: "She's puregold, our Norma. They've sickened her, just as I knew they would! But, Wolf, she may swing back for a little while. She's like that; she alwayshas been. She was no more than a baby when she'd be as naughty as shecould be, and then so good that I was afraid I was going to lose her. Gogently with her, Wolf; be patient with her, dear. She's going to make amagnificent woman, some day. "

"She's a magnificent woman, now, " the man said, simply. "She's too goodfor me, I know that. She's--you can't think how cunning she is--howwonderful she's been, all day!"

"Go slowly, " his mother said again. "She's only a baby, Wolf; she'sexcited and romantic and generous because she's such a baby! Don't makeher sorry that she's given herself to you so--so trusting----"

She hesitated. 

"I'll take care of her!" Wolf asserted, a little gruffly. 

There was time for no more; they heard her step on the stairs, and shecame dancing back with Rose. Her cheeks were burning with excitement;she gave her aunt and cousin quick good-bye kisses, and caught thebaby's soft little cheek to her own velvety one. She and Wolf would beback on Sunday night, they promised; as they ran down the path the sunslipped behind a leaden cloud, and all the world darkened suddenly. Abrisk whirl of springtime wind shook the rose bushes in Rose's littlegarden, and there was a cool rushing in the air that promised rain. 

But Norma was still carried along on the high tide of supreme emotion, and to Wolf the day was radiant with unearthly sunshine, and perfumedwith all the flowers of spring. The girl had flung herself sowholeheartedly into her rôle that it was not enough to bewilder andplease Wolf, she must make him utterly happy. Dear old Wolf--alwaysready to protect her, always good and big and affectionate, and ready tolaugh at her silliest jokes, and ready to meet any of her problemssympathetically and generously. Her beauty, her irresistible charm asshe hung on his arm and chattered of what they would do when theystarted housekeeping, almost dizzied him. 

She liked everything: their wheeling deep upholstered seats in thetrain; the seaside hotel, with the sea rolling so near in the softtwilight; the dinner for which they found themselves so hungry. Afterward they climbed laughing into a big chair, and were pushed alongbetween the moving lines of other chairs, far up the long boardwalk. AndNorma, with her soft loose glove in Wolf's big hand, leaned back againstthe curved wicker seat, and looked at the little lighted shops, andlistened to the scrape of feet and chatter of tongues and the solemnroll and crash of the waves, and stared up childishly at the arch ofstars that looked so far and calm above this petty noise and glare. Shewas very tired, every muscle in her body ached, but she was content. Wolf was taking care of her and there would be no more lonely vigils andagonies of indecision and pain. She thought of Christopher with a sortof childish quiet triumph; she had solved the whole matter for themboth, superbly. 

Wolf was a silent man with persons he did not know. But he never wassilent with Norma; he always had a thousand things to discuss with her. The lights and the stir on the boardwalk inspired him to all sorts ofgood-natured criticism and speculation, and they estimated just theexpense and waste that went on there day by day. 

"Really to have the ocean, Wolf, it would be so much nicer to be even inthe wildest place--just rocks and coves. This is like having a lion inyour front parlour!"

"Lord, Norma--when I got up this morning, if somebody had told me that Iwould be married, and down at Atlantic City to-night----!"

"I know; it's like a dream!"

"But you're not sorry, Norma; you're sure that I'm going to make youhappy?" the man asked, in sudden anxiety. 

"You always _have_, Wolf!" she answered, very simply. 

He never really doubted it; it was a part of Wolf's healthy normalnature to believe what was good and loving. He was not exacting, notenvious; he had no real understanding of her giddy old desires forwealth and social power. Wolf at twenty-five was working so hard and sointerestedly, sleeping so deeply, eating his meals with such appetite, and enjoying his rare idle time so heartily, that he had neither timenor inclination for vagaries. He had always been older than his years, schooled to feel that just good meals and a sure roof above him markedhim as one of the fortunate ones of the earth, and of late his work inthe big factory had been responsible enough, absorbing enough, and morethan gratifying enough to satisfy him with his prospects. He was likedfor himself, and he knew it, and he was already known for that strangeone-sightedness, that odd little twist of mechanical vision, that sureknowledge of himself and his medium, that is genius. The joy of findinghimself, and that the world needed him, had been strong upon Wolf duringthe last few months, and that Norma had come back to him seemed only areason for fresh dedication to his work, an augury that life was goingto be kind to him. 

She was gone when he wakened the next morning, but he knew that the seahad an irresistible fascination for her, and followed her quite assurely as if she had left footprints on the clear and empty sands. Hefound her with her back propped against a low wooden bulkhead, herslender ankles crossed before her, her blue eyes fixed far out at sea. 

She turned, and looked up at him from under the brim of her hat, and theman's heart turned almost sick with the depth of sudden adoration thatshook him; so young, so friendly and simple and trusting was the readysmile, so infinitely endearing the touch of the warm fingers she slippedinto his! He sat down beside her, and they dug their heels into thesand, and talked in low tones. The sun shone down on them kindly, andthe waves curved and broke, and came rushing and slithering to theirfeet, and slid churning and foaming noisily under the pier near by. Norma buried her husband's big hand in sand, and sifted sand through herslender fingers; sometimes she looked with her far-away look far outacross the gently rocking ocean, and sometimes she brought her blue eyesgravely to his. And the new seriousness in them, the grave and noblesweetness that he read there, made Wolf suddenly feel himself no longera boy, no longer free, but bound for ever to this exquisite andbewildering child who was a woman, or woman who was a child, sacredlybound to give her the best that there was in him of love and service andprotection. 

She showed him a new Norma, here on the sunshiny sands, one that he wasto know better as the days went by. She had always deferred to hiswisdom and his understanding, but she seemed to him mysteriously wisethis morning--no longer the old little sister Norma, but a new, sage, keen-eyed woman, toward whom his whole being was flooded with humilityand awe and utter, speechless adoration. 

At nine o'clock, when nurses and children began to come down to theshore, they got to their feet, and wandered in to breakfast. And here, to his delight, she was suddenly the old mad-cap Norma again, healthilyeager for ham and eggs and hot coffee, interested in everything, andbewitchingly pretty in whatever position she took. 

"I wish we had the old 'bus, Nono, " Wolf said. He usually spoke of hismotor-car by this name. "They've been overhauling her in that Newarkplace. She was to be ready--by George, she was ready yesterday!"

"We'll go over--I'll come over and meet you next Saturday, " his youngwife promised, busy with rolls and marmalade, "and you'll take me tolunch, and then we'll get the car, and go and take Rose and the baby fora ride!"

"Norma, " the man exclaimed, suddenly struck with a sense of utterfelicity, and leaning across the table to stop, for the minute, hermoving fingers with the pressure of his own, "you haven't any idea howmuch I love you--I didn't know myself what it was going to mean! To haveyou come over to the factory, and to have somebody say that Mrs. Sheridan is there, and to go to lunch--Dearest, do you realize howwonderful and how--well, how _wonderful_ it's going to be? Norma, Ican't believe it. I can't believe that this is what love means toeverybody. I can't believe that every man who marries his--his----"

"Girl, " she supplied, laughing. 

"Girl--but I didn't mean girl. I meant his ideal--the loveliest personhe ever knew, " Wolf said, with a new quickness of tongue that she knewwas born of happiness. "I can't believe that just going to Childs'restaurants, or taking the car out on Sunday, or any other fool thingwe do, means to any man what it's going to mean to me! I just--well, Itold you that. I just can't believe it!"

Two days later they came home for Sunday supper, and there was muchsimple joy and laughter in the little city apartment. Aunt Kate ofcourse had fried chicken and coffee ice-cream for her four big children. Harry Junior, awakening, was brought dewy and blinking to the table, where his Aunt Norma kissed the tears from his warm, round littlecheeks, and gave him crumbs of sponge cake. Rose and Harry left at teno'clock for their country home, leaving the precious baby for hisgrandmother and aunt to bring back the next day, but the other three sattalking and planning until almost midnight, and Kate could feast hereyes to her heart's content upon the picture of Wolf in his father's oldleather chair, with Norma perched on the wide arm, one of her own armsabout her husband's neck and their fingers locked together. 

It was settled that they were to find a little house in East Orange, near Rose, and furnish it from top to bottom, and go to housekeepingimmediately. Meanwhile, Norma must see the Melroses, and get her weddingannouncements engraved, and order some new calling cards, and do athousand things. She and Wolf must spend their evenings writingnotes--and presents would be arriving----!

She made infinitesimal lists, and put them into her shopping bag, orstuck them in her mirror, but Wolf laughed at them all. And instead ofdisposing of them, they developed a demoralizing habit of wandering outinto Broadway, in their old fashion, after dinner, looking into shopwindows, drifting into little theatres, talking to beggars and taxi-cabmen and policemen and strangers generally, mingling with the bubblingyoung life of the city that overflowed the sidewalks, and surged in andout of candy and drug stores, and sat talking on park benches deep intothe soft young summer nights. 

Sometimes they went down to the shrill and crowded streets of the lowereast side, and philosophized youthfully over what they saw there; and, as the nights grew heavier and warmer, they often took the car, andskimmed out into the heavenly green open spaces of the park, or, onSaturday afternoon, packed their supper, and carried it fifty miles awayto the woods or the shore. 

CHAPTER XXV

Before she had been married ten days Norma dutifully went to call uponold Mrs. Melrose, being fortunate enough to find Leslie there. The oldlady came toward Norma with her soft old wavering footsteps, and gavethe girl a warm kiss even with her initial rebuke:

"Well, I don't know whether I am speaking to this bad runaway or not!"she quavered, releasing Norma from her bejewelled and lace-drapedembrace, and shaking her fluffed and scanty gray hair. 

"Oh, yes, you are, Aunt Marianna, " the girl said, confidently, with herhappy laugh. Leslie, coming more slowly forward, laughed and kissed her, too. 

"But why didn't you tell us, Norma, and have a regular wedding, likemine?" she protested. "I didn't know that you and your cousin were evenengaged!"

"We've worked it out that we were engaged for exactly three hours andten minutes, " Norma said, as they all settled down in the magnificent, ugly, comfortable old sitting-room for tea. She could see that bothLeslie and her grandmother were far from displeased. As a matter offact, the old lady was secretly delighted. The girl was most suitablyand happily and satisfactorily married; justice had been done her, andshe had solved her own problem splendidly. 

"But you knew he liked you, " Leslie ventured, diverted and curious. 

"Oh, well----" Norma's lips puckered mischievously and she looked down. 

"Oh, you _were_ engaged!" Leslie said, incredulously. "He's handsome, isn't he, Norma?"

"Yes, " the wife admitted, as if casually. "He really is--at least Ithink so. And I think everyone else thinks so. At least, when I comparehim to the other men--for instance----"

"Oh, Norma, I'll bet you're crazy about him, " Leslie said, derisively. 

Norma looked appealingly at the old lady, her eyes dancing with fun. 

"Well, of _course_ she loves her husband, " Mrs. Melrose protested, witha little cushiony pat of her hand for the visitor. 

"I don't see that it's 'of course', " Leslie argued, airily, with alittle bitterness in her tone. Her grandmother looked at her in quickreproof and anxiety. "The latest, " she said, drily, to Norma, "is thatmy delightful husband is living at his club. "

"Now, Leslie, that is very naughty, " the old lady said, warmly. "Youshouldn't talk so of Acton. "

"Well, " Leslie countered, with elaborate innocence, turning to Norma, "all I can say is that he walked out one night, and didn't come backuntil the next! Of course, " she added, with a suppressed yawn thatpoorly concealed her sudden inclination to tears, "of course _I_ don'tcare. Patsy and I are going up to Glen Cove next week--and he can liveat his club, for all me!"

"Money?" Norma asked. For Leslie's extravagance was usually the cause ofthe young Liggetts' domestic strife. 

Leslie, who had lighted a cigarette, made an affirmative grimace. 

"Now, it's all been settled, and Grandma has straightened it all out, "old Mrs. Melrose said, soothingly. "Acton was making out their incometax, " she explained, "and some money was mentioned--how was that, dear?--Leslie had sold something--and he hadn't known of it, that wasall! Of course he was a little cross, poor boy; he had worked it all outone way, and he had no idea that this extra--sixteen thousand, wasit?--had come in at all, and been spent----"

"Most of it for bills!" Leslie interpolated, bitterly. Norma laughed. 

"Sixteen thou----! Oh, heavens, my husband's salary is sixty dollars aweek!" she confessed, gaily. 

"But you have your own money, " the old lady reminded her, kindly, "and avery nice thing for a wife, too! I've talked to Judge Lee about it, dear, and it's all arranged. You must let me do this, Norma----"

"I think you're awfully good to me, Aunt Marianna, " Norma said, thoughtfully. "I told Wolf about it, and he thinks so, too. Buthonestly----"

Even with her secret knowledge of her own parentage, Norma was surprisedat the fluttered anxiety of the old lady, and Leslie was franklypuzzled. 

"No, Norma--no, Norma, " Mrs. Melrose said, nervously and imploringly. "Idon't want you to discuss that at all--it's _settled_. The check is tobe deposited every month, or quarter, or whatever it was----"

"Don't be a fool, Norma, you'll need it, one way or another, " Leslieassured her. But in her own heart Leslie wondered at her grandmother'sgenerosity. 

"Everybody needs more money. I'll bet you the King of England----"

"Oh, kings!" Norma laughed. "They're the worst of all. I don't knowabout this one, but they're always appealing for special funds--all ofthem. And that's one thing that makes Wolf so mad--the fact that allthey have to do, for ridiculous extravagances, is clap on a tax. "

But Leslie and her grandmother were not interested in the youngengineer's economic theories. The old lady followed Norma's spiritedsummary merely with an uneasy: "You mustn't let your husband get anysocialistic ideas, Norma; there's too much of that now!" and Leslie, after a close study of Norma's glowing face, remarked suddenly:

"Norma, I'll bet you a _dollar_ you're rouged!"

Before she left, the visitor managed a casual inquiry about Aunt Alice. 

Aunt Alice was fine, Leslie answered carelessly, adding immediately thatno, Aunt Alice really wasn't extremely well. Doctor Garrett didn't wanther to go away this summer, thought that move was an unnecessary wasteof energy, since Aunt Alice's house was so cool, and she felt the heatso little. And Chris said that Alice had always really wanted to stay intown, in her own comfortable suite. She liked her second nurseimmensely, and Miss Slater was really running the house now, the thirdnurse coming only at night. 

"But Aunt Alice never had a nurse at night, " Norma was going to say. Butshe caught the stricken and apprehensive look on the old lady's face, and substituted generously: "Well, I remember Aunt Alice told me she hadone of these wretched times several years ago. "

"Yes, indeed she did--frightened us almost to death, " Mrs. Melroseagreed, thankfully. 

"And how is--how is Chris?" Norma felt proud of the natural tone inwhich she could ask the question. 

"Chris is fine, " Leslie answered. She rarely varied the phrase in thisrelation. "He's hunting in Canada. He had a wire from some man there, and he went off about a week ago. They're going after moose, I believe;Chris didn't expect to get back for a month. Aunt Alice was delighted, because she hates to keep him in town all summer, but Acton told me thathe thought Chris was sick--that he and Judge Lee just made him go. "

Well, her heart would flutter, she could not stop it or ignore it. Normafound no answer ready, and though she lifted her cup to her lips, tohide her confusion, she could not taste it. The strangeness of Chris'ssudden departure was no mystery to her; he had been shocked and stunnedby her marriage, and he had run away from the eyes that might havepierced his discomfiture. 

Still, her hands were trembling, and she felt oddly shaken and confused. Leslie carried the conversation away to safer fields, and shortlyafterward Norma could say her good-byes. Everybody, Leslie said, walkingwith her to the corner, wanted to know what the bride wanted for awedding-present. Norma told Wolf, over their candle-lighted suppertable, an hour or two later, that he and she would be bankrupted forlife returning them. 

Yet she loved the excitement of receiving the gifts; naturally enough, loved Rose's ecstasies over the rugs and silver and mahogany that madethe little New Jersey house a jewel among its kind. It was what Normahad unhesitatingly pronounced an "adorable" house, a copy of the truecolonial green-and-white, quaint and prim enough to please even Leslie, when Leslie duly came to call. It stood at the end of a tree-shadedstreet, with the rising woods behind it, and Norma recklessly investedin brick walks and a latticed green fence, hydrangeas in wooden tubs andsunflowers and hollyhocks, until her stretch of side garden looked likea picture by Kate Greenaway. 

When it was all done, midsummer was upon them, but she and Wolf thoughtthat there had never been anything so complete and so charming in allthe world. The striped awnings that threw clean shadows upon the clippedgrass; the tea table under the blue-green leaves of an old apple tree;the glass doors that opened upon orderly, white-wainscoted rooms full ofshining dark surfaces and flowered chintzes and gleaming glass bowls ofreal flowers; the smallness and completeness and prettiness ofeverything filled them both with utter satisfaction. 

Norma played at housekeeping like a little girl in a doll's house. Shehad a rosy little Finnish maid who enjoyed it all almost as much as shedid, and their adventures in hospitality were a constant amusement anddelight. On Saturdays, when Rose and Harry and Aunt Kate usuallyarrived, Wolf could hardly believe that all this ideal beauty andpleasure was his to share. 

The girls would pose and photograph the baby tirelessly, laughing as hetoppled and protested, and kissing the fat legs that showed between hispink romper and his pink socks. They would pack picnic lunches, rushingto and fro breathlessly with thermos bottles and extra wraps for Miggs, as Harry Junior was usually called. Once or twice they cleaned the car, with tremendous splashing and spattering, assuming Wolf's old overallsfor the operation, and retreating with shrieks into the kitchen wheneverthe sound of an approaching motor-car penetrated into their quiet road. Mrs. Sheridan characterized them variously as "Wild Indians", "Ay-rabs", and "poor innocents" but her heart was so filled with joy and gratitudefor the turn of events that had brought all these miracles about, thatno nonsense and no noise seemed to her really extravagant. 

It was an exceptionally pleasant community into which the youngSheridans had chanced to move, and they might have had much moreneighbourly life than they chose to take. There were about thembeginners of all sorts: writers and artists and newspaper men, whoselittle cars, and little maids, and great ambitions would have formed astrong bond of sympathy in time. But Wolf and Norma saw them onlyoccasionally, when a Sunday supper at the country club or aSaturday-night dance supplied them with a pleasant stimulating sense ofbeing liked and welcomed, or when general greetings on the eight-o'clocktrain in the morning were mingled with comments on the thunderstorm orthe epidemic of nursery chicken-pox. 

When Rose and Harry were gone, on Sunday evenings, Wolf and Norma mightsit on the side steps of the side porch, looking off across the gradualdrop descent of tree-tops and shingled roofs, into a distant worldsilvering under the summer moon. These were their happiest times, whensolitude and quiet spread about them, after the hospitable excitementsof the day, and they could talk and dream and plan for the years ahead. 

She was an older Norma now, even though marriage had not touched herwith any real responsibility, and even though she was more full ofdelicious childish absurdities than ever. The first months of theirmarriage had curiously reversed their relationship, and it was Norma nowwho gave, and Wolf who humbly and gratefully accepted. It was Norma whopoured comfort and beauty and companionship into his life, who smiled athim over his morning fruit, and who waited for him under the old mapleat the turn of the road, every night. And as her wonderful and touchinggenerosity enveloped him, and her strange wisdom and new sweetnessimpressed him more and more, Wolf marvelled and adored her more utterly. He had always loved her as a big brother, had even experienced adefinite heartache when she grew up and went away, a lovely andunattainable girl in the place where their old giddy dear little Normahad been. 

But now his passion for his young wife was becoming a devouring fire inWolf's heart; she absorbed him and possessed him like a madness. A dozentimes a day he would take from his pocket-book the thin leather case shehad given him, holding on one side a photograph of the three heads ofRose, his mother, and the baby, and on the other an enchanting shadow ofthe loosened soft hair and the serious profile that was Norma. 

And as he stood looking at it, with the machinery roaring about him, andthe sunlight beating in through steel-barred windows sixty feet high, inall the confusion of shavings and oil-soaked wood, polished slidingshafts streaked with thick blue grease, stifling odours of creosote andoily "wipes", Wolf's eyes would fill with tears and he would shake hishead at his own emotion, and try to laugh it away. 

After awhile he took another little picture of her, this one taken undera taut parasol in bright sunlight, and fitted it over the oppositefaces; and then when he had studied one picture he could turn to theother, and perhaps go back to the first before his eyes were satisfied. 

And if during the day some thought brought her suddenly to mind, hewould stop short in whatever he was doing, and remember her little timidupglancing look as she hazarded, at breakfast, some question about hiswork, or remember her enthusiasm, on a country tramp, for the chancemeal at some wayside restaurant, and sheer love of her would overwhelmhim, and he would find his eyes brimming again. 

CHAPTER XXVI

So the summer fled, and before she fairly realized it Norma saw theleaves colouring behind the little house like a wall of fire, andrustled them with her feet when she tramped with Wolf's big collie intothe woods. The air grew clearer and thinner, sunset came too soon, and adelicate beading of dew loitered on the shady side of the house untilalmost noon. 

One October day, when she had been six months a wife, Norma made herfirst call upon Annie von Behrens. Alice she had seen several times, when she had stopped in, late in the summer mornings, to entertain theinvalid with her first adventures in housekeeping, and chat with MissSlater. But Chris she had quite deliberately avoided. He had written herfrom Canada a brief and charming note, which she had shown Wolf, and heand Alice had had their share in the general family gift of silver, thecrates and bags and boxes of spoons and bowls and teapots that hadanticipated every possible table need of the Sheridans for generationsto come. But that was all; she had not seen Chris, and did not want tosee him. 

"The whole thing is rather like a sickness, in my mind, " she told Wolf, "and I don't want to see him any more than you would a doctor or a nursethat was associated with illness. I don't know what we--what I wasthinking about!"

"But you think he really--loved you--Nono?"

"Well--or he thought he did!"

"And did you like him terribly?"

"I think I thought I did, too. It was--of course it was something wecouldn't very well discuss----. "

"Well, I'm sorry for him. " Wolf had dismissed him easily. On her part, Norma was conscious of no particular emotion when she thought of Chris. The suddenness and violence with which she had broken that associationand made its resumption for ever impossible, had carried her safely intoa totally different life. Her marriage, her new husband and new home, her new title indeed, made her seem another woman, and if she thought ofChris at all it was to imagine what he would think of these changes, andto fancy what he would say of them, when they met. No purely visionarymeeting can hold the element of passion, and so it was a remote andspiritualized Chris of whom Norma came to think, far removed from theactual man of flesh and blood. 

Her call upon Annie she made with a mental reserve of cheerfulexplanation and apology ready for Annie's first reproach. Norma nevercould quite forget the extraordinary relationship in which she stood toAnnie; and, perhaps half consciously, was influenced by the belief thatsome day the brilliant and wonderful Mrs. Von Behrens would come to knowof it, too. 

But Annie, who happened to be at home, and had other callers, rapidlydashed Norma's vague and romantic anticipations by showing her only thebrisk and aloof cordiality with which she held at bay nine tenths of heracquaintance. Annie's old butler showed Norma impassively to the littledrawing-room that was tucked in beyond the big one; two or threestrangers eyed the newcomer cautiously, and Annie merely accorded her aperfunctory welcome. They were having tea. 

"Well, how do you do? How very nice of you, Norma. Do you know Mrs. Theodore Thayer, and Mrs. Thayer, and Miss Bishop? Katrina, this is--thename is still Sheridan, isn't it, Norma?--this is Mrs. Sheridan, who waswith Mama and Leslie last summer. You have lots of sugar and cream, Norma, of course--all youngsters do. And you're near the toast----" AndAnnie, dismissing her, leaned back in her chair, and dropped her voiceto the undertone that Norma had evidently interrupted. "Do go on, Leila, " she said, to the older of the three women, "that's quitedelicious! I heard something of it, but I knew of course that there wasmore----"

A highly flavoured little scandal was in process of construction. Normaknew the principals slightly; the divorced woman, and the second husbandfrom whom she had borrowed money to loan the first. She could join inthe laughter that broke out presently, while she tried to identify hercompanions. The younger Mrs. Thayer had been the Miss Katrina Davenportof last month's brilliant wedding. Pictures of her had filled theillustrated weeklies, and all the world knew that she and her husbandwere preparing to leave for a wonderful home in Hawaii, where the familysugar interests were based. They were to cross the continent, Normaknew, in the Davenport private car, to be elaborately entertained in SanFrancisco, and to be prominent, naturally, in the island set. LittleMiss Bishop had just announced her engagement to Lord Donnyfare, asplendid, big, clumsy, and impecunious young Briton who had made himselfvery popular with the younger group this winter. They were to bemarried in January and her ladyship would shortly afterward betransferred to London society, presented at court, and placed asmistress over the old family acres in Devonshire. 

They were both nice girls, pretty, beautifully groomed and dressed, andfar from unintelligent as they discussed their plans; how theirfavourite horses and dogs would be moved, and what instructions had beengiven the maids who had preceded them to their respective homes. KatrinaThayer was just twenty, Mary Bishop a year younger; Norma knew that theformer was perhaps the richest girl in America, and the latter was alsoan heiress, the society papers having already hinted that among thewedding gifts shortly to be displayed would be an uncle's casual checkfor one million dollars. 

"And of course it'll be charming for Chris, Mary, " Annie presently said, "if he's really sent to Saint James's. "

Norma felt her throat thicken. 

"Chris--to England--as Ambassador?" she said. 

"Well, there's just a possibility--no, there's more than that!" Annietold her. "I believe he'll take it, if it is offered. Of course, he'ssupremely well fitted for it. There's even"--Annie threw out to thecompany at large, with that air of being specially informed in which shedelighted--"there's even very good reason to suppose that influence hasbeen brought to bear by----But I don't dare go into that. However, wefeel that it will be offered. And the one serious drawback is naturallymy sister. Alice--poor child! And yet, of us all, Alice is mostdesperately eager for Chris to take it. "

"I should think, " Norma said, "that Aunt Alice could almost bemoved----?"

"Oh, she would be!" Annie agreed, with her quick, superior definiteness. "That's the very question. Whether the north Atlantic passage, say inMay, when it oughtn't to be so hard, would be too much for her. Ofcourse it would tire her and shake her cruelly, no doubt of that. ButHendrick even talks of some sort of balanced bed--on the hammockidea--and Miss Slater would see that everything that was humanlypossible was done. I believe it could be managed. Then she would be metby one of those big, comfortable English ambulances, at Southampton, andtaken right to her apartment, or hotel, or whatever Chris arranges. "

"Not so much harder, " Norma ventured, "than the trip to Newport, afterall. "

"Well, she didn't go to Newport last summer, " Annie said, "but she iscertainly better now than she was then, and I believe it could be done;I really do. We're not talking a great deal about it, because nothing issettled, but if it becomes definite, I shall certainly advise it. "

Norma drank her tea, and listened, and threw in an occasional word. Whenthe other women rose to go, she rose, too, perhaps half-hoping thatAnnie would hold her for a more intimate word. But Annie quite suavelyand indifferently included her in her general farewells, and Norma hadcordial good-byes from the two young women, and even a vague invitationfrom the older Mrs. Thayer to come and see her, when Katrina was gone. 

Then she was walking down the Avenue, with her head and heart in aconfused whirl of bitterness and disappointment. The three quarters ofan hour in Aunt Annie's big, dim, luxurious palace had been like a doseof some insidious poison. 

The very atmosphere of richness and service and idleness, the beauty ofwide spaces and rich tones, the massed blossoms and dimmed lights, struck sharply upon senses attuned to Aunt Kate's quick voice, Rose'slittle house with its poverty and utility, and Wolf's frank enjoyment ofhis late and simple dinner. The conversation, with its pleasantassumption of untold wealth of power and travel and regal luxuriousness, burned its memory across Norma's mind like a corroding acid. They werenot contemptible, they were not robbers or brutes or hideous oldplutocrats who had grown wealthy upon the wrongs of the poor. No, theywere normal pleasant girls whose code it was to be generous to maids andunderlings, to speak well of their neighbours, to pay their bills andkeep their promises. 

"They make me _tired_!" she tried to tell herself, walking briskly, andfilling her lungs with the sweet fresh air. It was twilight, and thenorth-bound tide of traffic was halting and rushing, halting andrushing, up the Avenue; now held motionless at a crossing, now flowingon in mad haste, the lumbering omnibuses passing each other, littlehansoms threading the mass, and foot passengers scampering andwithdrawing, and risking all sorts of passages between. The distance wasluminous and blue, and lights pricked against it as against a scarf ofgauze. 

Oh, it was sickening--it was sickening--to think that life was so grimand hard for the thousands, and so unnecessarily, so superlativelybeautiful for the few! What had Mary Bishop and Katrina ever done, thatthey should travel in private cars, fling aside furs that had cost asmuch as many a man's yearly salary, chatter of the plantation near thebeach at Hawaii, or of reaching Saint James's for the JanuaryDrawing-Room!

Norma stopped to give twenty-five cents to an old Italian organ grinder, and worked him into her theme as she went on. Why _should_ he look sograteful for her casual charity, he, seventy years old, Katrina and Maryaveraging less than twenty!

She reached Aunt Kate's flat in a thorough temper, angry, headachy, almost feverish after the rich scones and the rich tea, and the evenless wholesome talk. The apartment house seemed, as indeed it was, grimyand odorous almost to squalor, and Aunt Kate almost hateful in hercheerfulness and energy. This was Wednesday, and on Wednesday eveningsshe was always happy, for then Wolf and Norma came to dinner with her. To-night, busily manipulating pans and pots, she told Norma that she hadrented the two extra bedrooms of the apartment to three young trainednurses, ideal tenants in every way. 

"They'll get their breakfasts here, and--if I'm away--there's no reasonwhy they shouldn't cook themselves a little dinner now and then, " saidAunt Kate, in her rich, motherly voice. "They were tickled to death toget the two rooms for twenty dollars, and that makes my own rent onlyseventeen more. I asked them if that was too much, and they said, no, they'd expected to pay at least ten apiece. "

Norma listened, unsympathetic and gloomy. It was all so petty and sopoor--trained nurses, and apple pie, and Aunt Kate renting rooms, andWolf eager to be promoted to factory manager. 

She wanted to go back--back to the life in which Annie really noticedher, gave her luncheons, included her. She wanted to count for somethingwith Mary and Katrina and Leslie; she wanted to talk to Chris about hispossible ambassadorship; she wanted them all to agree that Norma's witand charm more than made up for Norma's lack of fortune. While shebrushed her hair, in the room that would shortly accommodate two of thethree little nurses, she indulged in an unsatisfying dream in which shewent to London with Alice--and that autocratic little Lady Donnyfare. 

Lady Donnyfare! She would be "your ladyship!" Nineteen years old, andwelcomed to the ancestral mansion as her little ladyship!

Norma set the dinner table for three, with jerks and slams that slightlyrelieved her boiling heart. She got the napkins from the sideboarddrawer, and reached for the hand-painted china sugar bowl that was partof a set that Aunt Kate had won at a fair. She set the blue tile thatshe had given Aunt Kate on a long-ago Christmas where the brown Rebeccateapot would stand, and cut a square slice of butter from the end of thenew pound for the blue glass dish. And all the time her heart wasbursting with grief and discontent, and she was beginning to realize forthe first time the irrevocable quality of the step she had taken, andjust how completely it had shut her off from the life for which shethirsted. 

Wolf came in, hungry, dirty, radiantly happy, with a quick kiss for hismother and an embrace for his wife into which her slender figure andcloudy brown head almost disappeared. Lord, he was starving; and Lord, he was dead; and Lord, it was good to get home, said Wolf, hissatisfaction with life too great to leave room for any suspicion of hiswife's entire sympathy. 

She told them, over the meal, of Mary and Katrina, in whom theirinterest was of a simple and amazed quality that Norma resented, and ofChris's prospect, which did awaken some comment from Mrs. Sheridan. They were a clever family, she said. 

But now Wolf, bursting with long suppression, suddenly took the floorwith his own great news. Voorhies, the fifty-year-old manager of theCalifornia plant, had been drifting about the Newark factory for severaldays, and Wolf had talked with him respectfully, as a man oftwenty-five, whose income is three thousand a year, may talk to asix-thousand-dollar manager, and to-day Voorhies, and Jim Palmer, theNewark manager, and Paul Stromberg, the vice-president, had taken Wolfto lunch with them, apparently casually, apparently from merefriendliness. But Voorhies had asked him if he had ever seen the West;and Stromberg had said that he understood Sheridan's family consistedmerely of a young wife, and Palmer had chanced to drop carelessly thefact that Mr. Voorhies was not going back to California----!

That was all. But it was enough to send Wolf back to his work with hishead spinning. California--and a managership of a mine--and sixthousand! It must be--it must be--that he had been mentioned for it, that they had him in mind! He wasn't going even to think of it--andNorma mustn't--but Lord, it meant being picked out of the ranks; itmeant being handed a commission on a silver platter!

Norma tried not to be cold, tried to rise to the little he asked of her, as audience. And she had the satisfaction of knowing that he noticednothing amiss in her manner, and of seeing him go off to sleep, whenthey had made the long trip home, with his head in a whirl of glorioushopes. But Norma, for the first time since her marriage, cried herselfto sleep. 

CHAPTER XXVII

The bitterness stayed with her, and gradually robbed her life ofeverything that was happy and content. Her little household round, thathad been so absorbing and so important, became tedious and stupid. Rose, who was expecting her second confinement, had her husband's mother withher, and in care of the old baby, and making preparations for the new, was busy, and had small time for the old companionship; the eveningswere too cold for motoring now, even if Wolf had not been completelyburied in engineering journals and papers of all sorts. 

Norma did not call on Annie again, but a fretted and outraged sense ofAnnie's coolness and aloofness, and a somewhat similar impression fromLeslie's manner, when they met in Fifth Avenue one day, was always inher mind. They could drop her as easily as they had picked her up, thesehigh-and-mighty Melroses! She consoled herself, for a few days, withspectacular fancies of Annie's consternation should Norma's realidentity be suddenly revealed to her, but even that poor solace wastaken away from her at last. 

It was Aunt Kate's unconscious hand that struck the blow, on a wildafternoon, All Hallow E'en, as it happened, when the older woman madethe long trip to see Rose, and came on to Norma with a report thateverything was going well, and Miggs more fascinating than ever. 

Mrs. Sheridan found Norma at the close of the short afternoon, moping inher unlighted house. She had been to the theatre with Wolf and a youngcouple from the house next door, last night, and had fallen asleep afteran afternoon walk, and felt headachy, prickly with heat and cold, andstupid. Yawning and chilly, she kissed her aunt, and suggested that theymove to the kitchen. It was Inga's free night and Norma was cook. 

"You'll stay and surprise Wolf, he'd love it, " Norma said, as thevisitor's approving eyes noted the general order and warmth, theblue-checked towels and blue bowls, the white table and white walls. Thelittle harum-scarum baby of the family was proceeding to get her husbanda most satisfactory and delicious little dinner, and Aunt Kate was proudof her. 

"Did you make that cake, darling?"

"Indeed I did; she can't make cake!"

"And the ham?"

"Well"--Norma eyed the cut ham fondly--"we did that together, out of thebook! And I wish you'd taste it, Aunt Kate, it is perfectly delicious. Igive it to Wolf every other night, but I think he'd eat it three times aday and be delighted. And last week we made bread--awfully good, too--not hard like that bread we made last summer. Rolls, wemade--cinnamon rolls and plain. Harry and Rose were here. AndThanksgiving I'm going to try mincemeat. "

"You're a born cook, " Aunt Kate said, paying one of her highestcompliments with due gravity. But Norma did not respond with her usualbuoyancy. She sighed impatiently, and her face fell into lines ofdiscontent and sadness that did not escape the watching eyes. Mrs. Sheridan changed the subject to the one of a cousin of Harry Redding, one Mrs. Barry with whose problems Norma was already dismally familiar. Mrs. Barry's husband was sick in a hospital, and she herself had to havean expensive operation, and the smallest of the four children had sometrouble hideously like infantile paralysis. 

Norma knew that Aunt Kate would have liked to have her offer to take atleast one of the small and troublesome children for two or three days, if not to stay with the unfortunate Kitty Barry outright. She knew thatthere was almost no money, that all the household details of washing andcooking were piling up like a mountain about the ailing woman, but herheart was filled with sudden rebellion and impatience with the wholemiserable scheme. 

"My goodness, Aunt Kate, if it isn't one thing with those people it'sanother!" she said, impatiently. "I suppose you were there, and up withthat baby all night!"

"Indeed I got some fine sleep, " Mrs. Sheridan answered, innocently. "Poor things, they're very brave!"

Norma said nothing, but her expression was not sympathetic. She had beenthinking of herself as to be pitied, and this ruthless introduction ofthe Barry question entirely upset the argument. If Mary Bishop andKatrina Thayer were the standard, then Norma Sheridan's life was tooutterly obscure and insignificant to be worth living. But of course ifincompetent strugglers like the Barrys were to be brought into thequestion, then Norma might begin to feel the solid ground melting frombeneath her feet. 

She did not offer the cake or the ham to Aunt Kate, as contributionstoward the small Barrys' lunch next day, nor did she invite any one ofthem to visit her. Her aunt, if she noted these omissions, made nocomment upon them. 

"I declare you are getting to be a real woman, Norma, " she said. 

"I suppose everyone grows up, " Norma assented, cheerlessly. 

"Yes, there's a time when a child stops being a baby and you see thatit's beginning to be a little girl, " Mrs. Sheridan mused; "but it's sometime later before you know _what sort_ of a little girl it is. And thenat--say fifteen or sixteen--you see the change again, the little girlgrowing into a grown girl--a young lady. And for awhile you sort of losetrack of her again, until all of a sudden you say: 'Well, Norma's goingto be sociable--and like people!' or: 'Rose is going to be a gentle, shygirl----'"

Norma knew the mildly moralizing tone, and that she was getting asermon. 

"You never knew that I was going to be a good housekeeper!" sheasserted, inclined toward contrariety. 

"I think you're going through another change now, Baby, " her aunt said. "You've become a woman too fast. You don't quite know where you are!"

This was so unexpectedly acute that Norma was inwardly surprised, and alittle impressed. She sat down at one end of the clean little kitchentable, and rested her face in her hands, and looked resentfully at theolder woman. 

"Then you _don't_ think I'm a good housekeeper, " she said, looking hurt. 

"I think you will be whatever you want to be, Norma, it'll all be inyour hands now, " Mrs. Sheridan answered, seriously. "You're a woman, now; you're Wolf's wife; you've reached an age when you can choose anddecide for yourself. You can be--you always could be--the best child theLord ever made, or you can fret and brood over what you haven't got. "

The shrewd kindly eye seemed looking into Norma's very soul. The girldropped her hard bright stare, and looked sulky. 

"I don't see what _I'm_ doing!" she muttered. "I can't helpwanting--what other people that are no better than I, have!"

"Yes, but haven't you enough, Norma? Think of women like poor KittyBarry----"

"Oh, Kitty Barry--Kitty Barry!" Norma burst out, angrily. "It isn't myfault that Kitty Barry has trouble; _I_ had nothing to do with it! Lookat people like Leslie--what she wastes on one new fur coat would keepthe Barrys for a year! Eighty-two hundred dollars she paid for herbirthday coat! And that's _nothing_! Katrina Thayer----"

"Norma--Norma--Norma!" her aunt interrupted, reproachfully. "What haveyou to do with girls like the Thayer girl? Why, there aren't twentygirls in the country as rich as that. That doesn't affect _you_, ifthere's something you can do for the poor and unfortunate----"

"It _does_ affect me! I can't"--Norma dropped her tone, and glanced ather aunt. She knew that she was misbehaving--"I can't help inheriting alove for money, " she said, breathing hard. "I know perfectly well who Iam--who my mother is, " she ended, with a half-defiant and half-fearfulsob in her voice. 

"How do you mean that you know about your mother, Norma?" Mrs. Sheridandemanded, sharply. 

"Well"--Norma had calmed a little, and she was a trifle nervous--"Christold me; and Aunt Alice knows, too--that Aunt Annie is my mother, " shesaid. 

"Chris Liggett told you that?" Mrs. Sheridan asked, with a note ofincredulity in her voice. 

"Yes. Aunt Alice guessed it almost as soon as I went to live there! AndI've known it for over a year, " Norma said. 

"And who told Chris?"

"Well--Aunt Marianna, I suppose!"

There was silence for a moment. 

"Norma, " said Mrs. Sheridan, in a quiet, convincing tone that cooled thegirl's hot blood instantly, "Chris is entirely wrong; your mother isdead. I've never lied to you, and I give you my word! I don't know whereMiss Alice got that idea, but it's like her romantic way of fancyingthings! No, dear, " she went on, sympathetically, as Norma sat silent, half-stunned by painful surprise, "you have no claim on Miss Annie. Bothyour father and mother are dead, Norma; I knew them both. There was areason, " Mrs. Sheridan added, thoughtfully, "why I felt that Mrs. Melrose might want to be kind to you--want to undo an injustice she didyears ago. But I've told myself a thousand times that I did you a cruelwrong when I first let you go among them--you who were always sosensible, and so cheerful, and who would always take things as theycame, and make no fuss!"

"Oh, Aunt Kate, " Norma stammered, bitterly, her lip trembling, and hervoice fighting tears, "you don't have to tell me that in your opinionI've changed for the worse--I see it in the way you look at me! You'vealways thought Rose was an angel--too good to live!--and that I wasspoiled and lazy and good-for-nothing; you were glad enough to get ridof me, and now I hope you're satisfied! They've told me one thing, andyou've told me another--and I guess the truth is that I don't belong toanybody; and I wish I was dead, where my f-f-father and m-m-motherare----!"

And stumbling into incoherence and tears, Norma dropped her head on herarm, and sobbed bitterly. Mrs. Sheridan's face was full of pain, but shedid not soften. 

"You belong to your husband, Norma!" she said, mildly. 

Norma sat up, and wiped her eyes on a little handkerchief that she tookfrom the pocket of her housewifely blue apron. She did not meet heraunt's eye, and still looked angry and hurt. 

"Well--who _am_ I then? Haven't I got some right to know who my motherand father were?" she demanded. 

"That you will never hear from me, " Mrs. Sheridan replied, firmly. 

"But, Aunt Kate----"

"I gave my solemn promise, Norma, and I've kept my word all these years;I'm not likely to break it now. "

"But--won't I _ever_ know?"

Mrs. Sheridan shrugged her broad shoulders and frowned slightly. 

"That I can't say, my dear, " she said, gently. "Some day I may bereleased from my bond, and then I'll be glad to tell you everything. "

"Perhaps Wolf will tell me he's nothing to me, now!" the girl continued, with childish temper. 

"Wolf--and all of us--think that there's nobody like you, " the olderwoman said, tenderly. But Norma did not brighten. She went in abusinesslike way to the stove, and glanced at the various bowls andsaucepans in which dinner was baking and boiling, then sliced some stalebread neatly, put the shaved crusts in a special jar, and began to toastthe slices with a charming precision. 

"Change your mind and stay with us, Aunt Kate?" she said, lifelessly. 

"No, dear, I'm going!" And Aunt Kate really did bundle herself into coatand rubber overshoes and woolly scarf again. "November's coming in witha storm, " she predicted, glancing out at the darkness, where the windwas rushing and howling drearily. 

Norma did not answer. No mere rushing of clouds and whirl of dry andcolourless leaves could match the storm of disappointment that wasbeginning to rage in her own heart. 

Yet she felt a pang of repentance, when cheerful Aunt Kate had trampedoff in the dark, to Rose's house, which was five blocks away, andperhaps afterward to the desolate Barrys', and wished that she had puther arms about the big square shoulders, and her cheek against heraunt's cheek, and said that she was sorry to be unreasonable. 

Rushing to another extreme of unreason, she decided that she and Wolfmust go see Rose to-night--and perhaps the Barrys, too--and cheer andsolace them all. And Norma indulged in a little dream of herself nursingand cooking in the Barrys' six little cluttered rooms, and earninggolden opinions from all the group. There was money, too; she had notused all of October's allowance, and to-morrow would find another bigcheck at the bank. 

Wolf interrupted by coming in so tired he could hardly move. He ate hisdinner, yawned amiably in the kitchen while she cleared it away, and wasso sound asleep at nine o'clock that Norma's bedside light and therustling of the pages of her book, three feet away from his face, had nomore effect upon him than if the three feet had been three hundred. 

And then the bitter mood came back to her again; the bored, restless, impatient feeling that her life was a stupid affair. And deep in herheart the sense of hurt and humiliation grew and spread; the thoughtthat she was not of the charmed circle of the Melroses, not secretly andromantically akin to them, she was merely the casual object of the oldlady's fantastic sense of obligation. Aunt Kate, who had never said whatwas untrue--who, Norma and her children firmly believed, could not saywhat was untrue--had taken away, once and for all, the veil of mysteryand romance that had wrapped Norma for three exciting years. 

For Leslie, and Katrina, and Mary Bishop, perhaps, travel and the thrillof foreign shores or European courts. But for Wolf Sheridan's wife, thissmall, orderly, charming house on the edge of the New Jersey woods, andthe laundry to think of every Monday, and the two-days' ordering toremember every Saturday, as long as the world went round!

For a few days Norma really suffered in spirit, then the natural healthycurrent of her life reëstablished itself, and she philosophicallydetermined to make the best of the matter. If she was not Aunt Annie'sdaughter and Leslie's cousin, she was at least their friend. They--evenunsuspecting of any strange relationship--had always been kind to her. And Aunt Marianna and Aunt Alice had been definitely affectionate, tosay nothing of Chris!

So one day, when she happened to be shopping in the winter briskness ofthe packed and brilliant Avenue, she telephoned Leslie at about theluncheon hour. Leslie when last they met had said that she wouldconfidently expect Norma to run out and lunch with her some day--anyday. 

"Who is it?" Leslie's voice asked, irritably, when at last the telephoneconnection was established. "Oh, _Norma_! Oh----? What is it?"

"Just wondering how you all were, and what the family news is, " Normasaid, with an uncomfortable inclination to falter. 

"I don't _hear_ you!" Leslie protested, impatiently. The insignificantinquiry did not seem to gain much by repetition, and Norma's cheeksburned in shame when Leslie followed it by a blank little pause. "Oh--everyone's fine. The baby wasn't well, but she's all right now. "

Another slight pause, then Norma said:

"She must be adorable--I'd like to see her. "

"She's not here now, " Leslie answered, quickly. 

"I've been shopping, " Norma said. "Any chance that you could come downtown and lunch with me?"

"No, I really couldn't, to-day!" Leslie answered, lightly and promptly. 

A moment later Norma said good-bye. She walked away from the telephonebooth with her face burning, and her heart beating quickly with angerand resentment. 

"Snob--snob--snob!" she said to herself, furiously, of Leslie. And ofherself she presently added honestly, "And I wasn't much better, for Idon't really like her any more than she does me!" And she stopped forflowers, and a little box of pastry, and went out to delight her AuntKate's heart with an unexpected visit. 

But a sting remained, and Norma brooded over the injustice of life, asshe went about her little house in the wintry sunlight, and listened toWolf, and made much of Rose and the new baby girl. By Thanksgiving itseemed to her that she had only dreamed of "Aïda" and of Newport, andthat the Norma of the wonderful frocks and the wonderful dreams had beenonly a dream herself. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

And then suddenly she was delighted to have a friendly little note fromAlice, asking her to come to luncheon on a certain December Friday, asthere was "a tiny bit of business" that she would like to discuss; Chriswas away, she would be alone. Norma accepted with no more than ordinarypoliteness, and showed neither Wolf nor his mother any elation, but shefelt a deep satisfaction in the renewed relationship. 

On the appointed Friday, at one o'clock, she mounted the familiar stepsof the Christopher Liggetts' house, and greeted the butler with adelighted sense of returning to her own. Alice was in the front room, before a wood fire; she greeted Norma with her old smile, and with anoutstretched hand, but Norma was shocked to see how drawn and strangelyaged the smile was, and how thin the hand!

The room had its old scent of violets, and its old ordered beauty andrichness, but Norma was vaguely conscious, for the first time, of somenew invalid quality of fussiness, of a pretty and superfluous clutteringthat had not been characteristic of Alice's belongings a year ago. Alice, too, wore newly a certain stamp of frailty, her always pure highforehead had a faint transparency and shine that Norma did not remember, and the increasing accumulation of pillows and little bookcases andhandsome stands about her suggested that her horizon was closing in, that her world was diminishing to this room, and this room alone. 

The strange nurse who smilingly and noiselessly slipped away as Normacame in, was another vaguely disquieting hint of helplessness, but Normaknew better than to make any comment upon her impressions, and merelyasked the usual casual questions, as she sat down near the couch. 

"How are you, Aunt Alice? But you look splendidly!"

"I'm so _well_, " said Alice, emphatically, with a sort of solemnthankfulness, "that I don't know myself! Whether it was saving myselfthe strain of moving to Newport last summer, or what, I don't know. ButI haven't been so well for _years_!"

Norma's heart contracted with sudden pity. Alice had never employedthese gallant falsehoods before. She had always been quite obviouslyhappy and busy and even enviable, in her limited sphere. The girlchatted away with her naturally enough while the luncheon table wasarranged between them and the fire, but she noticed that two nursesshifted the invalid into an upright position before the meal, and thatAlice's face was white with exhaustion as she began to sip her bouillon. 

They were alone, an hour later, playing with little boxed ices, whenAlice suddenly revealed the object of the meeting. Norma had asked forChris, who was, it appeared, absent on some matter of business for a fewdays, and it was in connection with the introduction of his name thatAlice spoke. 

"Chris--that reminds me! I wanted to speak to you about something, Norma; I've wanted to for months, really. It's not really important, because of course you never would mention it any more than I would, andyet it's just as well to have this sort of thing straightened out!Chris told me"--said Alice, looking straight at Norma, who had grown atrifle pale, and was watching her fixedly--"Chris told me that somemonths before you were married, he told you of some--some ridiculoussuspicions we had--it seems absurd now!--about Annie. "

So that was it! Norma could breathe again. 

"Yes--we talked about it one morning walking home from church, " sheadmitted. 

"I don't know whether you know now, " Alice said, quickly, flushingnervously, "that there wasn't one shred of foundation for that--thatcrazy suspicion of mine! But I give you my word--and my mother toldme!--that it wasn't so. I don't know how I ever came to think of it, orwhy I thought Mama admitted it. But I've realized, " said Alice, nervously, "that it was a terrible injustice to Annie, and as soon asChris told me that you knew it--and of course he had _no business_ tolet it get any further!--I wanted to set it straight. Poor Annie; shewould be perfectly frantic if she knew how calmly I was saddling herwith a--a terrible past!" said Alice, laughing. "But I have always beentoo sensitive where the people I love are concerned, and I blunderedinto this--this outrageous----"

"My aunt had told me that it was not so, " Norma said, coolly andsuperbly interrupting the somewhat incoherent story. "If I ever reallybelieved it----!" she added, scornfully. 

For her heart was hot with rage, and the first impulse was to vent itupon this nearest of the supercilious Melroses. This was all Alice hadwanted then, in sending that little overture of friendship: to tell thelittle nobody that she was nothing to the great family, after all, toprevent her from ever boasting even an illicit relationship! It was fora formal snub, a definite casting-off, that Norma had been brought allthe way from the little green-and-white house in New Jersey! Her eyesgrew very bright, and her lips very firm, as she and Alice finished thetopic, and she told herself that she would never, never enter the houseof Liggett again!

Alice, this load off her mind, and the family honour secure, became muchmore friendly, and she and Norma were talking animatedly when Leslie andAnnie came unexpectedly in. They had been to a débutante luncheon, andwere going to a débutante tea, and meanwhile wanted a few minutes withdear Alice, and the latest news of Mrs. Melrose, who was in Florida. 

Aunt and niece were magnificently furred and jewelled, magnificentlyunaware of the existence of little Mrs. Sheridan of East Orange. Normaknew in a second that the social ripples had closed over her head; shewas of no further possible significance in the life of either. Lesliewas pretty, bored, ill-tempered; Annie her usual stunning and radiantlysatisfied self. The conversation speedily left Norma stranded, thechatter of engagements, of scandals, of new names, was all strange toher, and she sat through some ten minutes of it uncomfortably, longingto go, and not quite knowing how to start. She said to herself that shewas done with the Melroses; never--never--never again would even theirmost fervently extended favour win from her so much as a civilacknowledgment!

There was a step in the hall, and a voice that drove the blood fromNorma's face, and made her heart begin the old frantic fluttering andthumping. Before she could attempt to collect her thoughts, the dooropened, and Chris came in. He came straight to Alice, and kissed her, holding her hand as he greeted Annie and Leslie. Then he came across thehearthrug, and Norma got to her feet, and felt that his hand was as coldas hers, and that the room was rocking about her. 

"Hello, Norma!" he said, quietly. "I didn't expect to find you here!"

"You haven't seen her since she was married, Chris, " Alice said, andChris agreed with a pleasant "That's so!"

He sat down, and Norma, incapable of any effort, at least until shecould control the emotion that was shaking her like a vertigo, sank backinto her own chair, unseeing and unhearing. The gold clock on the mantelticked and tocked, the other three women chatted and laughed, and Chriscontributed his share to the general conversation. But Norma's onedesperate need was for escape. 

He made no protest when she said hasty farewells, but when she had gonerapidly and almost blindly down the stairway, and was at the front door, she found him beside her. He got into his fur-collared coat, picked uphis hat, and they descended to the sidewalk together, in the colourless, airless, sunless light of the winter afternoon. 

"Get in my car!" Chris said, indicating the roadster at the curb. 

The girl without a word obeyed. His voice, the motion of his clean-cutmouth, the searching glance of his quick, keen eyes, acted upon her likea charm. Alice--Wolf--every thing else in the world vanished from herthoughts, or rather had never been there. She was drinking again theforbidden waters for which she had thirsted, perhaps without quiteknowing it, so long. The strangeness, the strain, the artifice of thelast eight months fell from her like a spell; she was herself again, comfortable again, poised again, thrilling from head to heels withdelicious and bubbling life--ready for anything!

Now that they were alone she felt no more nervousness; he would speak toher when he was ready, he could not leave her without speaking. Normasettled back comfortably in the deep, low seat, and glanced sidewise atthe stern profile that showed between his high fur collar and the furcap he had pulled well down over his ears. The world seemed changed toher; she had wakened from a long dream. 

"No--not the old house!" she presently broke the silence to tell him. "Igo to New Jersey. "

He had been driving slowly out Fifth Avenue, now he obediently turned, and threaded his way through the cross-street traffic until they werewithin perhaps a hundred feet of the entrance to the New Jersey subways. Then he ran the car close to the curb, and stopped, and for the firsttime looked fully at Norma, and she saw his old, pleasant smile. 

"Well, and how goes it?" he asked. "How is Wolf? Tell me where you areliving, and all about it!"

Norma in answer gave him a report upon her own affairs, and spoke ofAunt Kate and Rose and Rose's children. She did not realize that a tonealmost pleading, almost apologetic, crept into her eager voice while shespoke, and told its own story. Chris watched her closely, his eyes neverleaving her face. All around them moved the confusion and congestion ofSixth Avenue; overhead the elevated road roared and crashed, butneither man nor woman was more than vaguely conscious of surroundings. 

"And are you happy, Norma?" Chris asked. 

"Oh, yes!" she answered, quickly. 

"You are a very game little liar, " he said, dispassionately. "No--no, I'm not blaming you!" he added, hastily, as she would have spoken. "Youtook the very best way out, and I respect and honour you for it! I wasnot surprised--although the possibility had never occurred to me. "

Something in his cool, almost lifeless tone, chilled her, and she didnot speak. 

"When I heard of it, " Chris said, "I went to Canada. I don't rememberthe details exactly, but I remember one day sitting up there--in thewoods somewhere, and looking at my hunting knife, and looking at mywrist----"

He looked at his wrist now, and her eyes followed his. 

"--and if I had thought, " Chris presently continued, "that a slash theremight have carried me to some region of peace--where there was no hungerfor Norma--I would not have hesitated! But one isn't sure--more's thepity!" he finished, smiling with eyes full of pain. 

Norma could not speak. The work of long months had been undone in ashort hour, and she was conscious of a world that crashed and tumbled inutter ruin about her. 

"Well, no use now, " Chris said. He folded his arms on his chest, andlooked sternly away into space for a minute, and Norma felt hisself-control, his repression, as she would have felt no passionateoutburst of reproach. "But there is one thing that I've wanted for along time to tell you, Norma. If you hadn't been such a little girl, ifyou had known what life is, you could not have done what you did!"

"I suppose not, " she half-whispered, with a dry throat, as he waited forsome sign from her. 

"No, you couldn't have given yourself to any one else--if you hadknown, " Chris went on, as if musing aloud. "And that brings me to what Iwant to say. Marriage lasts a long, long time, Norma, and even you--withall your courage!--may find that you've promised more than you canperform! The time may come----

"Norma, I hope it won't!" he interrupted himself to say, bitterly. "Itry to hope it won't! I try to hope that you will come to love him, mydear, and forget me! But if that time does come, what I want you toremember is this afternoon, and sitting here with me in the car, andChris telling you that whenever--or wherever--or however he can serveyou, you are to remember that he is living just for that hour! Therewill never be any change in me, Norma, never anything but longing andlonging just for the sight of you, just for one word from you! I loveyou, my dear--I can't help it. God knows I've _tried_ to help it. I loveyou as I don't believe any other woman in the world was ever loved! Somuch that I want life to be good to you, even if I never see you, and Iwant you to be happy, even without me!"

He had squared about to face her, and as the passionate rush of wordsswept about her, Norma laid her little gloved hand gently upon his bigone, and her blue eyes, drowned in sudden tears, fixed themselves inexquisite desolation and despair upon his face. 

Once or twice she had whispered "I know--I know!" as if to herself, butshe did not interrupt him, and when he paused he saw that she was chokedwith tears, and could not speak. 

"The mad and wonderful sacrifice you made I can't talk about, Norma, " hesaid. "Only an ignorant, noble-hearted little girl like you could havedone that! But that's all over, now. You must try to make your life whatthey think it is--those good people that love you! And I'll try, too!--Ido try. And you mustn't cry, my little sweetheart, " Chris added, with atenderness so new, and so poignantly sweet, that Norma was almost faintwith the sheer joy of it, "you mustn't blame me for just saying this, this once, because it's for the last time! We mustn't meet----" Hisvoice dropped. "I think we mustn't meet, " he repeated, painfully andslowly. 

"No!" she agreed, quickly. 

"But you are to remember that, " Chris reiterated, "that I am living, andmoving about, and going to the office, and back to my home, only becauseyou are alive in the world, and the day may come when I can serve you!Life has been only that to me, for a long, long time!"

For a long minute Norma sat silent, her dark lashes fallen on her cheek, her eyes on the hand that she had grasped in her own. 

"I'll remember, Chris! Thank you, Chris!" she said, simply. Then sheraised her eyes and looked straight at him, with a childish littlefrown, puzzled and bewildered, on her forehead, and they exchanged along look of good-bye. Chris raised her hand to his lips, and Norma veryquietly slipped from her seat, and turned once to smile bravely at himbefore she was lost in the swiftly moving whirlpool of the subwayentrance. She was trembling as she seated herself in the train, andmoved upon her way scarcely conscious of what she was doing. 

But Chris did not move from his seat for more than an hour. 

Norma went home, and quickly and deftly began her preparations fordinner. Inga had been married a few weeks before, and so Norma had nomaid. She put her new hat into its tissue paper, and tied a freshchecked apron over her filmy best waist, and stepped to and fro betweenstove and dining table, as efficient a little housekeeper as all NewJersey could show. 

Wolf came home hungry and good-natured, and kissed her, and sat at theend of her little kitchen table while she put the last touches to themeal, appreciative and amusing, a new magazine for her in the pocket ofhis overcoat, an invitation from his mother for dinner to-morrow night, and a pleasant suggestion that he and she wander up Broadway again andlook in windows, after his mother's dinner. 

They talked, while they dined, of the possibility of the Californiamove, and Wolf afterward went down to the furnace. When the fire wasbanked for the night, he watched the last of the dinner clearance, andthey went across the cold dark strip of land between their house and aneighbour's, to play three exciting rubbers of bridge. 

And at eleven Wolf was asleep, and Norma reading again, or trying toread. But her blood was racing, and her head was spinning, and beforeshe slept she brought out all her memories of the afternoon. Chris'swords rang in her heart again, and the glances that had accompaniedthem unrolled before her eyes like some long pageant that was infinitelywonderful and thrilling. Leslie and Annie and Alice might snub her, butChris--their idol, the cleverest and most charming man in all theircircle!--Chris loved her. Chris loved her. And--from those old dreamydays in Biretta's Bookstore, had she not loved Chris?

Another morning came, another night, and life went its usual way. ButNorma was wrapped in a dream that was truly a pillar of cloud by day, and of flame by night. She was hardly aware of the people about her, except that her inner consciousness of happiness and of elation gave heran even added sweetness and charm, made her readier to please them, andmore anxious for their love. 

Wolf almost immediately saw the change, but she did not see the shadowthat came to be habitual in his young face, nor read aright his graveeyes. She supposed him perhaps unusually busy, if indeed she thought ofhim at all. Like her aunt, and Rose, and the rest of her world, he wasno more now than a kindly and dependable shadow, something to be quicklyput aside for the reality of her absorbing friendship for Chris. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Despite their resolve not to see each other in the two weeks thatfollowed Alice's luncheon, Norma had seen Chris three times. He hadwritten her on the third day, and she had met the postman at the corner, sure that the big square envelope would be there. They had had luncheon, far down town, and walked up through the snowy streets together, partingwith an engagement for the fourth day ahead, a matinée and teaengagement. The third meeting had been for luncheon again, and afterlunch they had wandered through an Avenue gallery, looking at thepictures, and talking about themselves. 

Chris had loaned her books, little slim books of dramas or essays, andChris had talked to her of plays and music. One night, when Wolf was inPhiladelphia, Chris took her to the opera again, duly returning her toAunt Kate at half-past eleven, and politely disclaiming Aunt Kate'sgratitude for his goodness to little Norma. 

He never attempted to touch her, to kiss her; he never permitted himselfan affectionate term, or a hint of the passion that enveloped him; theywere friends, that was all, and surely, surely, they told themselves, aself-respecting man and woman may be friends--may talk and walk andlunch together, and harm no one? Norma knew that it was the one vitalelement in Chris's life, as in her own, and that the hours that he didnot spend with her were filled with plans and anticipations for theirtimes together. 

One evening, just before Christmas, when the young Sheridans werestaying through a heavy storm with their mother, Wolf came home with thenews that he must spend some weeks in Philadelphia, studying a newmethod of refining iron ore. It was tacitly understood that thistransfer was but a preliminary to the long-anticipated promotion to theCalifornia managership, but Wolf took it very quietly, with none of theexultation that the compliment once would have caused him. 

"I'll go with you to Philadelphia, " Norma said, not quite naturally. Shehad been made vaguely uneasy by his repressed manner, and by the factthat her kiss of greeting had been almost put aside by him, at the door, a few minutes earlier. Dear old Wolf; she had always loved him--shewould not have him unhappy for all the world!

In answer he looked at her unsmilingly, wearily narrowing his eyes as ifto concentrate his thoughts. 

"You can't, very well, but thank you just the same, Norma, " he said, formally. "I shall be with Voorhies and Palmer and Bender all the time;they put me up at a club, and there'll be plenty of evening work--nearlyevery evening----"

"Norma'll stay here with me!" Aunt Kate said, hospitably. 

"Well"--Wolf agreed, indifferently--"I can run up from Philadelphia andbe home every Saturday, Mother, " he added. Norma felt vaguely alarmed byhis manner, and devoted her best efforts to amusing and interesting himfor the rest of the meal. After dinner she came in from the kitchen tofind him in a big chair in the little front parlour, and she seatedherself upon an arm of it, and put her own arm loosely about his neck. 

"What are you reading, Wolf? Shall we go out and burn up Broadway?There's a wonderful picture at The Favourite. "

He tossed his paper aside, and moved from under her, so that Norma foundherself ensconced in the chair, and her husband facing her from the rugthat was before the little gas log. 

"Where's Mother?"

"Gone downstairs to see how the Noon baby is. "

"Norma, " said Wolf, without preamble, "did you see Chris Liggettto-day?"

Her colour flamed high, but her eyes did not waver. 

"Yes. We met at Sherry's. We had lunch together. "

"You didn't meet by accident?" There was desperate hope in Wolf's voice. But Norma would not lie. With her simple negative her head drooped, andshe looked at her locked fingers in silence. 

Wolf was silent, too, for a long minute. Then he cleared his throat, andspoke quietly and sensibly. 

"I've been a long time waking up, Nono, " he said. "I'm sorry! Of courseI knew that there was a difference; I knew that you--felt differently. And I guessed that it was Chris. Norma, do you--do you still like him?"

She looked up wretchedly, nodding her head. 

"More"--he began, and stopped--"more than you do me?" he asked. And inthe silence he added suddenly: "Norma, I thought we were so happy!"

Then the tears came. 

"Wolf, I'll never love any one more than I do you!" the girl said, passionately. "You've always been an angel to me--always the best friendI ever had. I know you--I know what you are to Rose, Aunt Kate, and whatthe men at the factory think of you. I'm not fit to tie your shoes! I'mwicked, and selfish, and--and everything I oughtn't to be! But I can'thelp it. I've wanted you to know--all there was to know. I've met him, and we've talked and walked together; that's all. And that's all wewant--just to be friends. I'm sorry----" Her voice trailed off on a sob. "I'm awfully sorry!" she said. 

"Yes, " Wolf said, slowly, after a pause, "I'm sorry, too!"

He sat down, rumpling his hair, frowning. Norma, watching him fearfully, noticed that he was very pale. 

"I thought we were so happy, " he said again, simply. 

"Ah, Wolf, don't think I've been fooling all this summer!" his wifepleaded, her eyes filling afresh. "I've loved it all--the peachice-cream, and the picnics, and everything. But--but people can't helpthis sort of thing, can they? It does happen, and--and they just simplyhave to make the best of it, don't they? If--if we go to California nextmonth--you know that I'll do everything I can----!"

He was not listening to her. 

"Norma, " he interrupted, sharply, "if Liggett's wife was out of theway--would you want to marry him?"

"Wolf!--what's the use of asking that? You only--you only excite usboth. Aunt Alice _isn't_ out of the way, and even if she were, I am yourwife. I'm sorry. I'll never meet him again--I haven't been a bit happyabout it. I'll promise you that I will not see him again. "

"I don't ask you for that promise, " Wolf said. "I don't know what we cando! I never should have let you--I shouldn't have been such a fool asto--but somehow, I'd always dreamed that you and I would marry. Well!"--he interrupted his musing with resolute cheerfulness--"I've gotto get over to the library to-night, " he said, "for I may have to startfor Phily to-morrow afternoon. Will you tell Mother----"

Norma immediately protested that she was going with him, but hepatiently declined, kissing her in a matter-of-fact sort of way as hepulled on the old overcoat and the new gloves, and slamming the halldoor behind him when he went. 

For a minute she stood looking after him, with a great heartache almostblinding her. Then she flashed to her room, and before Wolf had reachedthe corner his wife had slipped her hand into his arm, and her littledouble step was keeping pace with his long stride in the way they bothloved. 

She talked to him in her usual manner, and presently he could answernormally, and they bought peppermints to soften their literary labours. In the big library Wolf was instantly absorbed, but for awhile Norma satwatching the shabby, interested, intelligent men and women who came andwent, the shabby books that crossed the counters, the pretty, efficientdesk-clerks under their green droplights. The radiators clanked andhissed softly in the intervals of silence, sometimes there waswhispering at the shelves, or one of the attendants spoke in a low tone. 

Norma loved the atmosphere, so typical a phase of the great city'slife. After awhile she idly dragged toward her three books, from atable, and idly dipped into them: "The Life of the Grimkés"; "The Lifeof Elizabeth Prentiss"; "The Letters of Charles Dickens. "

Nine struck; ten; eleven. Wolf had some six or seven large books abouthim, and alternated his plunges into them with animated whisperedconversations with a silver-headed old man, two hours ago an utterstranger, but always henceforth to be affectionately quoted by Wolf as afriend. 

They indulged in the extravagance of a taxi-cab for the home trip. Normaleft Wolf still reading, after winning from him a kiss and a promise notto "worry", and went to bed and to sleep. When she wakened, after somenine delicious hours, he was gone; gone to Philadelphia, as it proved. 

Breakfasting at ten o'clock, in a flood of sweet winter sunshine, sheput a brave face on the matter. She told herself that it was better thatWolf should know, and only the part of true kindness not to deny what, for good or ill, was true. The memory of his grave and troubled facedistressed her, but she reminded herself that he would be back onSaturday, and then he would have forgiven her. She would see Christo-day, to-morrow, and the day after, and by that time they would havesaid everything that there was to say, and they would never see eachother again. 

For it was a favourite hallucination of theirs that every meeting was tobe the last. Not, said Chris, that there was any harm in it, but it waswiser not to see each other. And when Norma, glowing under his eyes, would echo this feeling, he praised her for her courage as if they hadresisted the temptation already. 

"I've thought it all over, Chris, " she would say, "and I know that thewisest way is to stop. And you must help me. " And when Chris answered, "Norma, I don't see where you get that marvellous courage of yours, " itdid not occur to Norma to question in what way she was showing courageat all. She lived upon his praise, and could not have enough of it. Henever tired of telling her that she was beautiful, good, brave, aconstant inspiration, and far above the ordinary type of woman; andNorma believed him. 

On the day before Wolf's first week-end return from Philadelphia, Chriswas very grave. When he and Norma were halfway through their luncheon, in the quiet angle of an old-fashioned restaurant, he told her why. Alice was failing. Specialists had told him that England was out of thequestion. She might live a year, but the probability was against it. They--he and Norma--Chris said, must consider this, now. 

Norma considered it with a paling face. It--it couldn't make anydifference, she said, quickly and nervously. 

And then, for the first time, he talked to her of her responsibility inthe matter, of what their love meant to them both. Wolf had his claim, true; but what was truly the generous thing for a woman to do toward aman she did not love? Wasn't a year or two of hurt feelings, even angerand resentment, better than a loveless marriage that might last fiftyyears?

This was a terrible problem, and Norma did not know what to think. Onthe one hand was the certainty of that higher life from which she hadbeen exiled since her marriage: the music, the art, the letters, thecultivated voices and fragrant rooms, the wealth and luxury, thedevotion of this remarkable and charming man, whose simple friendshiphad been beyond her dreams a few years ago. On the other side was thepainful and indeed shameful desertion of Wolf, the rupture with AuntKate and Rose, and the undying sense in her own soul of an unworthyaction. 

But Rose was absorbed in Harry and the children, and Aunt Kate wouldsurely go with Wolf to California, three thousand miles away----

"I am not brave enough!" she whispered. 

"You _are_ brave enough, " Chris answered, quickly. "Tell him thetruth--as you did on your wedding day. Tell him you acted on a madimpulse, and that you are sorry. A few days' discomfort, and you arefree, and one week of happiness will blot out the whole wretched memoryfor ever. "

"It is not wretchedness, Chris, " she corrected, with a rueful smile. Butshe did not contradict him, and before they parted she promised him thatshe would not go to California without at least telling Wolf how shefelt about it. 

Rose and Harry joined them for the Saturday night reunion. Norma thoughtthat Wolf seemed moody, and was unresponsive to her generous welcome, and she was conscious of watching him somewhat apprehensively as theevening wore on. But it was Sunday afternoon before the storm broke. 

Wolf was at church when Norma wakened, and as she dressed she meditateda trifle uneasily over this departure from their usual comfortableSunday morning habit. She breakfasted alone, Wolf and his mother comingin for their belated coffee just as Norma, prettily coated and hattedand furred, was leaving the house for the ten-o'clock Mass. They didnot meet again until luncheon, and as Wolf had explained that he mustleave at four o'clock for Philadelphia, Norma began to think that thisparticular visit would end without any definite unpleasantness. 

However, at about three o'clock, he invited her to walk with him to thestation, and join his mother later, at Rose's house, in New Jersey, andNorma dared not refuse. They locked the apartment, and walked slowlydown Broadway, as they had walked so many thousand times before, in thestreaming Sunday crowds. Before they had gone a block Wolf openedhostilities by asking abruptly:

"Where did you go to church this morning?"

Norma flushed, and laughed a little. 

"I went down to the Cathedral; I'm fond of it, you know. Why?"

"Did you meet Chris Liggett?" Wolf asked. 

"Yes--I did, Wolf. He goes to the church near there, now and then. "

"When you telephone him to, " Wolf said, grimly. 

Norma began to feel frightened. She had never heard this tone from Wolfbefore. 

"I did telephone him, as a matter of fact--or rather he happened totelephone me, and I said I was going there. Is there anything sohorrifying in that?" she asked. 

"Just after you went out, the telephone operator asked me if the MurrayHill number had gotten us, " Wolf answered; "that's how I happen toknow. "

Norma was angry, ashamed, and afraid, all at once. For twenty feet theywalked in silence. She stole more than one anxious look at hercompanion; Wolf's face was set like flint. He was buttoned into thefamiliar old overcoat, a tall, brown, clean-shaven, and just nowscowling young man of the accepted American type, firm of jaw, keen ofeye, and with a somewhat homely bluntness of feature preventing him frombeing describable as handsome, or with at best a rough, hard, open-eyedsort of handsomeness that was as unconscious of itself as the beauty ofa young animal. 

"Wolf, don't be cross, " his wife pleaded, in illogical coaxing. 

"I'm not cross, " he said, with an annoyed glance that humiliated andangered her. "But I don't like this sort of thing, Norma, and I shouldthink you'd know why. "

"What sort of thing?" Norma countered, quickly. 

"The sort of thing that evidently Mr. Christopher Liggett thinks is fairplay!" Wolf said, with youthful bitterness. "Harry saw you both walkingup Fifth Avenue yesterday, and Joe Anderson happened to mention that youand a man were lunching together on Thursday, down at the Lafayette. There may be no harm in it----"

"There _may_ be!" Norma echoed, firing. "You know very well there_isn't_!"

"You see him every day, " Wolf said. 

"I _don't_ see him every day! But if I did, it wouldn't be HarryRedding's and Joe Anderson's business!"

"No, " Wolf said, more mildly, "but it might be mine!"

Norma realized that he was softening under her distress, and she changedher tone. 

"Wolf, you know that you can trust me!" she said. 

"But I don't know anything about him!" Wolf reminded her. "I know thathe's twice your age----"

"He's thirty-eight!"

"Thirty-eight, then--and I know that he's a loafer--a rich man who hasnothing else to do but run around with women----"

"I want to ask you to stop talking about something of which you areentirely ignorant!" Norma interrupted, hotly. 

"You're the one that's ignorant, Norma, " Wolf said, stubbornly, notlooking at her. "You are only a little girl; you think it's great fun tobe married to one man, and flirting with another! What makes me sick isthat a man like Liggett thinks he can get away with it, and youwomen----"

"If you say that again, I'll not walk with you!" Norma burst infuriously. 

"Does it ever occur to you, " Wolf asked, equally roused, "that you aremy wife?"

"Yes!" Norma answered, breathlessly. "Yes--it does! And why? Because Iwas afraid I was beginning to care too much for Chris Liggett--because Iknew he loved me, he had told me so!--and I went to you because I wantedto be safe--and I told you so, too, Wolf Sheridan, the very day that wewere married! I never lied to you! I told you I loved Chris, that Ialways had! And if you'd been _civil_ to me, " rushed on Norma, beginningto feel tears mastering her, "if you'd been _decent_ to me, I would havegotten over it. I would never have seen him again anyway, after thisweek, for I told him this morning that I didn't want to go on meetinghim--that it wasn't fair to you! But no, you don't trust me and youdon't believe me, and consequently--consequently, I don't care what Ido, and I'll make you sorry----"

"Don't talk so wildly, Norma, " Wolf warned her, in a tone suddenly quietand sad. "Please don't--people will notice you!"

"I don't care if they do!" Norma said. But she glanced about desertedEighth Avenue uneasily none the less, and furtively dried her eyes upona flimsy little transparent handkerchief that somehow tore at herhusband's heart. "If you had been a little patient, Wolf----" shepleaded, reproachfully. 

"There are times when a man hasn't much use for patience, Norma, " Wolfsaid, still with strange gentleness. "You _did_ tell me of likingLiggett--but I thought--I hoped, I guess----!" He paused, and then wenton with sudden fierceness: "He's married, Norma, and you're married--Iwish there was some way of letting you out of it, as far as I amconcerned! Of course you don't have to go to California with me--if thathelps. You can get your freedom, easily enough, after awhile. But aslong as he's tied, it doesn't seem to me that he has any business----"

His gentle tone disarmed her, and she took up Chris's defence eagerly. 

"Wolf, don't you believe there is such a thing as love? Just that twopeople find out that they belong to each other--whether it's right orwrong, or possible or impossible--and that it may last for ever?"

"No, " said Wolf, harshly, "I don't believe it! He's married--doesn't helove his wife?"

"Well, of course he loves her! But this is the first time in all hislife that he has--cared--this way!" Norma said. 

Wolf made no answer, and she felt that she had scored. They were in thestation now, and weaving their way down toward the big concourse. Normatook her husband's arm. 

"Please--please--don't make scenes, Wolf! If you will just believe methat I wouldn't--truly I wouldn't!--hurt you and Aunt Kate for all theworld----"

"Ah, Norma, " he said, quickly, "I can't take my wife on those terms!"And turning from the ticket window he added, sensibly: "Liggett is tied, of course. But would you like me to leave you here when I go West? Untilyou are surer of yourself--one way or another? You only have to say so!"

She only had to say so. He had reached, of his own accord, the verypoint to which she long had hoped to bring him. But perversely, Normadid not quite like to have Wolf go off to Philadelphia with thisunpalatable affirmative ringing in his ears. She looked down. A moment'scourage now, and she would win everything--and more than everything!--towhich Chris had ever urged her. But she felt oddly sad and even hurt byhis willingness to give her her way. 

"All right!" he said, hastily. "That's understood. I'll tell Mother Idon't want you to follow, for awhile. Good-bye, Norma! You're taking thenext tube? Wait a minute--I want a _Post_----"

Was he trying to show her how mean he could be? she thought, as with aheartache, and a confused sense of wrong and distress, she slowly wentupon her way. Of course that parting was just bravado, of course he feltmore than that! She resented it--she thought he had been unnecessarilyunkind----

But her spirits slowly settled themselves. Wolf knew what she felt, now, and they had really parted without bitterness. A pleasant sense of beingher own mistress crept over her, her cheeks cooled, her flutteringheart came back to its normal beat. She began to hear herself tellingChris how courageous she had been. 

It was too bad--it was one of the sad things of life. But after all, love was love, in spite of Wolf's scepticism, and if it soothed Wolf tobe rude, let him have that consolation! What did a little pain more orless signify now? There was no going back. Years from now Wolf wouldforgive her, recognizing that great love was its own excuse for being. "And if this sort of thing exists only to be crushed and killed, " Normawrote Chris a few days later, "then half the great pictures, the greatnovels, the great poems and dramas, the great operas, are lies. But youand I know that they are not lies!"

She was unhappy at home, for Aunt Kate was grave and silent, Rosewrapped in the all-absorbing question of the tiny Catherine's meals, andWolf neither came nor wrote on Saturday night. But in Chris's devotionshe was feverishly and breathlessly happy, their meetings--always inpublic places, and without a visible evidence of their emotion--werehours of the most stimulating delight. 

CHAPTER XXX

So matters went on for another ten days. Then suddenly, on a mid-weekafternoon, Norma, walking home from a luncheon in a wild and stormywind, was amazed to see the familiar, low-slung roadster waiting outsideher aunt's door when she reached the steps. Chris jumped out and came tomeet her as she looked bewilderedly toward it, a Chris curiouslydifferent in manner from the man she had left only an hour ago. 

"Norma!" he said, quickly, "I found a message when I got to the office. I was to call up Aunt Marianna's house at once. She's ill--_very_ ill. They want me, and they want you!"

"Me?" she echoed, blankly. "What for?"

"She's had a stroke, " he said, still with that urgent and hurried air, "and Joseph--poor old fellow, he was completely broken up--said that shehad been begging them to get hold of you!"

Norma had gotten into the familiar front seat, but now she stayed himwith a quick hand. 

"Wait a minute, Chris, I'll run up and tell Aunt Kate where I am going!"she said. 

"She's gone out. There's nobody there!" he assured her, glancing up atthe apartment windows. "I knew you would be coming in, so I waited. "

"Then I'll telephone!" the girl said, settling herself again. "But whatdo you suppose she wants me for?" she asked, returning to the subject ofthe summons. "Have they--will they--send for Aunt Annie and Leslie, doyou suppose?"

"Leslie is in Florida with the Binneys, most unfortunately. Annie was inBaltimore yesterday, but I believe she was expected home to-day. Josephsaid he had gotten hold of Hendrick von Behrens, and I told my clerk toget Acton, and to warn Miss Slater that Alice isn't to be frightened. "

"But, Chris--do you suppose she is dying?"

"I don't know--one never does, of course, with paralysis. "

"Poor Aunt Alice--it will almost kill her!"

"Yes, it will be terribly hard for her, harder than for any one, " heanswered. And Norma loved him for the grave sympathy that filled hisvoice, and for the poise that could make such a speech possible, underthe circumstances, without ever a side glance for her. 

Then they reached the old house, ran up the steps, and were in the greatdark hallway that already seemed to be filled with the shadow of change. 

Whispering, solemn-faced maids went to and fro; Joseph was red-eyed; theheavy fur coats of two doctors were flung upon chairs. Norma slippedfrom her own coat. 

"How is she, Joseph?"

"I hardly know, Miss. You're to go up, please, and Regina was to tellone of the nurses at once that you had come, Miss. " He delivered hismessage impassively enough, but then the human note must break through. "I've been with her since she was married, Miss--nigh forty years, " theold man faltered, "and I'm afraid she is very bad--very bad, indeed!"

"Oh, I _hope_ not!" Norma went noiselessly upstairs, Chris close behindher. Did she hope not? She hardly knew. But she knew that all this wasstrangely thrilling--this rush through the tossing windy afternoon tothe old house, this sense of being a part of the emergency, this utterdeparture from the tedious routine of life. 

A serious-faced nurse took charge of them, and she and Chris followedher noiselessly into the familiar bedroom that yet looked so altered inits new lifeless order and emptiness. The clutter of personalpossessions was already gone, chairs had been straightened and pushedback, and on the bed that had lately been frilled and embroidered inwhite and pink, and piled with foolish little transparent baby pillows, a fresh, flawless linen sheet was spread. Silence reigned in the widechamber; but two doctors were standing by the window, and looked at thenewcomers with interest, and a second nurse passed them on her way out. Norma vaguely noted the fire, burning clear and bright, the shaded lightthat showed a chart, on a cleared table, the absence of flowers andplants that made the place seem bare. But after one general impressionher attention was riveted upon the sick woman, and with her heartbeating quickly with fright she went to stand at the foot of the greatwalnut bed. 

Mrs. Melrose was lying with her head tipped back in pillows; her usuallygentle, soft old face looked hard and lined, and was a dark red, and thescanty gray hair, brushed back mercilessly from the temples, and devoidof the usual puffs and transformations, made her look her full sixtyyears. Her eyes were half-open, but she did not move them, her lipsseemed very dry, and occasionally she muttered restlessly, and a thirdnurse, bending above her, leaned anxiously near, to catch what shesaid, and perhaps murmur a soothing response. 

This nurse looked sharply at Norma, and breathed rather than whispered:"Mrs. Sheridan?" and when Norma answered with a nod, nodded herself insatisfaction. 

"She's been asking and asking for you, " she said, in a low clear tonethat oddly broke the unnatural silence of the room. Norma, hearing astir behind her, looked back to see that both doctors had come over tothe bed, and were looking down at their patient with a profound concernthat their gray heads and their big spectacles oddly emphasized. 

"Mrs. Sheridan?" one of them questioned. Norma dared not use her voice, and nodded again. Immediately the doctor leaned over Mrs. Melrose, andsaid in a clear and encouraging tone: "Here is Mrs. Sheridan now!"

Mrs. Melrose merely moaned heavily in answer, and Norma said softly, tothe doctor who had spoken:

"I think perhaps she was asking for my aunt--who is also Mrs. Sheridan!"

Before the doctor, gravely considering, could answer, the sick womanstartled them all by saying, almost fretfully, in a surprisingly clearand quiet voice:

"No--no--no, I want you, Norma!"

She groped blindly about with her hand, as she spoke, and Norma kneeleddown, and covered it with both her own. Mrs. Melrose immediately beganto breathe more easily, and sank at once into the stupor from which shehad only momentarily roused. 

Norma looked for instruction to the doctor, who presently decided thatthere was nothing more to be gained for a time; she joined thempresently, with Chris, in the adjoining room. This was the same old roomof her first visit to the house, with the same rich old brocaded paperand fringed rep draperies, with the same pictures, and a few new ones, lined on the mantel. 

"Where are Mrs. Von Behrens and Leslie?" Doctor Murray, who had knownall the family intimately for years, asked Chris. 

"Is it so serious, Doctor?" Christopher asked in turn, when he hadanswered. The doctor, glancing toward the closed door, nodded gravely. 

"A matter of a day or two, " he said, looking at the other old doctor forconfirmation. "She was apparently perfectly normal last night, went tobed at her usual hour, " he said, "this morning she complained of herhead, when the maid went in at ten, said that she must have hurtit--struck it against something. The maid, a sensible young woman, wasuneasy, and telephoned for me. Unfortunately, I was in Westchester thismorning, but I got here at about one o'clock and found her as she isnow. She has had a stroke--probably several slight shocks. "

"Why, but she was perfectly well day before yesterday!" Norma said, inamazement. "And only ten days ago she came back from Florida, and saidthat she never felt better!"

"That is frequently the history of the disease, " the second doctor said, sagely. And, glancing at his watch, he added, "I don't think you willneed me again, Doctor Murray?"

"What are the chances of her--knowing anybody?" Chris asked. 

"She may very probably have another lucid interval, " Doctor Murray said. "If Mrs. Sheridan could arrange to stay, it would be advisable. Sheasked for her daughters, but she seemed even more anxious that we shouldsend for--_you_. " He glanced at Norma, with a little old-fashioned bow. 

Mrs. Sheridan could stay, of course. She would telephone home, andadvise Aunt Kate, at once. Indeed, so keen was Norma's sense almost ofenjoyment in this thrilling hour that she would have been extremelysorry to leave the house. It was sad, it was dreadful, of course, tothink that poor old Aunt Marianna was so ill, but at the same time itwas most dramatic. She and Chris settled themselves before the fire inthe upstairs sitting-room with Doctor Murray, who entertained them withmild reminiscences of the Civil War. The storm was upon the city now, rain slashed at the windows and the wind howled bitterly. 

There was whispering in the old house, quiet footsteps, muffled voicesat the door and telephone. At about six o'clock Chris went home, to tellAlice, with what tenderness he might, of the impending sorrow. Regina, who had been weeping bitterly, and would speak to no one, brought Normaand the doctor two smoking hot cups of bouillon on a tray. 

"And you mustn't get tired, Mrs. Sheridan, " one of the nurses, herselfhealthily odorous of a beef and apple-pie dinner, said kindly to Norma, at about seven o'clock. "There'll be coffee and sandwiches all night. This is a part of our lives, you know, and we get used to it, but it'shard for those not accustomed to it. "

At about nine o'clock in the evening Chris came back. Alice had receivedthe news bravely, he said; there had been no hysteria and she keptadmirable control of herself, and he had left her ready for sleep. Butit had hit her very hard. Miss Slater had promised him that she wouldput a sleeping powder into Alice's regular ten o'clock glass of hotmilk, and let him know when she was safely off. 

"She is very thankful that you are here, she was uneasy every instantthat I stayed away!" he said softly to Norma, and Norma nodded herapproval. Long before eleven o'clock they had the report that Alice wassleeping soundly under the combined effect of the powder and MissSlater's repeated and earnest assurance that there was no immediatedanger as regarded her mother. 

Chris and Norma and the doctor and two of the nurses went down to thedining-room, and had sandwiches and coffee, and talked long and sadly ofthe briefness and mutability of mortal life. When they went upstairsagain the doctor stretched out for some rest, on the sitting-room couch, and Norma went to her own old room, and got into her comfortable, thickpadded wrapper and warm slippers. The night was still wet and stormy, and had turned cold. Hail rattled on the window sills. 

Then she crept into the sick-room, and joined the nurses in theirunrelenting vigil. Mrs. Melrose was still lying back, her eyeshalf-open, her face darkly flushed, her lips moving in an incoherentmutter. Now and then they caught the syllables of Norma's name, and onceshe said "Kate!" so sharply that everyone in the sick chamber started. 

Norma, leaning back in a great chair by the bed, mused and pondered asthe slow hours went by. The softened lights touched the nurses' crispaprons, the fire was out now, and only the two softly palpitating disksfrom the shaded lamps dimly illumined the room. 

Annie and Theodore and Alice had all been born in this very room, Normathought. She imagined Aunt Marianna, a handsome, stout, radiant youngwoman, in the bustles and pleats of the early eighties, with the flowingruffles of Theodore's christening robe spreading over her lap. Howwonderful life must have seemed to her then, rich and young, and adoredby her husband, and with her first-born child receiving all the homagedue the heir of the great name and fortune! Then came Annie, and someyears later Alice, and how busy and happy their mother must have beenwith plenty of money for schools and frocks, trips to the country withher handsome, imperious children; trips to Europe when no desire need bedenied them, all the world the playground for the fortunate Melroses!

How short the perspective must look now, thought Norma, to that troubledbrain that was struggling among closing shadows, nearer and nearer everyslow clocktick to the end. How loathsome it must be to the prisonedspirit, this handsome, stifling room, this army of maids and nurses anddoctors so decorously resigned to facing the last scene of all. Why, thepoorest child in the city to-night, healthily asleep in some unspeakablemakeshift for a bed, possessed what all the Melrose money could not buyfor this moaning, suffocating old autocrat. 

"I should like to die out on a hillside, under the stars, " thoughtNorma, "with no one to watch me. This is--somehow--so horrible!"

And she crept toward the bed and slipped to her knees again, forcingherself against her inclination--for somehow prayers seemed to havenothing to do with this scene--to pray for the departing soul. 

"Norma, " the old lady said, suddenly, opening her eyes. She lookedquietly and intelligently at the girl. 

"Yes, dear!" Norma stammered, with a frightened glance toward thenurses. 

These were instantly intent, at the bedside. But Mrs. Melrose paid noattention to them. She patted Norma's hand. 

"Late for you, dear!" she whispered. "Night!" Obediently she dranksomething the nurse put to her lips, and when she spoke it was moreclearly. A moment later Doctor Murray had her pulse between hisnerveless fingers. She moved her eyes lazily to smile at him. "Tiderunning out, old friend!" she said, in a deep, rich voice. The doctorsmiled, shaking his head, but Norma saw his eyes glisten behind hisglasses. 

Suddenly Mrs. Melrose frowned, and began to show excitement. 

"Norma!" she said, quickly. "I want Chris!"

"Right here, Aunt Marianna!" Norma answered, soothingly. And Chris wasindeed leaning over the bed almost before she finished speaking. 

"I want to talk to you and Chris, " the old lady said, contentedlyclosing her eyes. "Everybody else out!" she whispered. 

The room was immediately cleared. "It can't hurt her now!" Doctor Murraylooked rather than said to Norma as he passed her. Chris watched theclosing doors, sat beside the bed's head with one arm half-supportinghis mother-in-law's pillows. 

"We're all alone, Aunt Marianna, " he said. "Leslie and Annie will behere in the morning, and Alice told me to tell you that she hoped----"

"Chris, " the sick woman interrupted, gazing at him with an intense andpainful stare, "this child here--Norma! I--I must straighten it all outnow, Chris. Kate knows. Kate has all the papers--letters--Louison'sletters! Ask Kate----"

She shut her eyes. Norma and Chris looked at one another inbewilderment. There was a long silence. 

"So now you know!" Mrs. Melrose said, presently, returning to fullconsciousness as naturally as she had before. "I told you, didn't I?"she asked, faintly anxious. 

"Don't bother now, Aunt Marianna, " the girl begged in distress. "To-morrow----"

"Louison, " Mrs. Melrose said, "was Annie's French maid--very superiorgirl!"

"I remember her--Theodore's wife, " Chris said, eager to help her. 

"And she was this girl's mother, " Mrs. Melrose added, clasping Norma'sfingers. "You understand that, Chris?"

"Yes, darling--we understand!" Norma said, with a nod to Chris that hewas to humour her. But Chris looked only strangely troubled. 

"Annie's poor baby lived--Kate brought it home from France, and we namedit Leslie, " the invalid said, clearly. "I couldn't--I couldn't forgetit, Chris. I used to go see it--at Kate's. And then, when it was three, I met Louison--poor girl, I had been cruel to her--and Theodore was faroff in California--dying, we knew. And I met Louison in Brooklyn. And Ihad a sudden idea, Chris! I told her to go to Kate, and get Annie'sbaby, and bring it to me as if it was her own. I told her to! I told herto say that it was her baby--Theodore's baby. And she did, Chris, and Ipaid her well for it. She brought Leslie here, and Annie neverknew--nobody ever knew! But I never knew that Louison had a baby of herown, Chris--I never knew that! Louison hated me, and she never told meshe had a little girl. No--no--no, I never knew that!"

"Then Leslie--is--Annie's child by Müller, the riding master!" Chriswhispered, staring blindly ahead of him. "And what--what became of theother child--Theodore's child?"

"Louison kept her until she was five, " the old lady explained, eagerly, "and then she wanted to marry again, and she had to go live in a wildsort of place, in Canada. She didn't want to take the little girl there, and she remembered Kate Sheridan, who had had the other baby, and whohad been so good to it--so devoted to it! And she went there, Chris, andleft her baby there. "

"And that baby----" Chris began. 

"Yes. That was Norma!" Mrs. Melrose said. "It is all Norma's, the wholething--and you must take care that she gets it, Chris. I--even my will, dear, only gives Norma the Melrose Building and some bonds. But thoseare for Leslie, now, all the rest--the whole estate goes to Theodore'schild--Norma. You must forgive me if I did it all wrong. I meant it forthe best. I never knew that you were living, dear, until Kate broughtyou here three years ago. She didn't dare do it until your mother died;she had promised she would never tell a living soul. But Louisonsoftened toward the end, and wrote Kate she must use her own judgment. And Kate--Kate--knows all about it----"

The voice thickened. The old lady raised herself in bed. 

"That man--behind you, Chris!" she gasped. Chris put her down again, Norma flew for help. The muttering and the heavy breathing recommenced. Nurses and doctors ran back, Regina came to kneel at the foot of thebed. 

Another slight stroke, they said later, when they were all about thefire in the next room again. Norma was white, her eyes glittering, herbitten lips scarlet in her colourless face. Chris looked stunned. 

But he found time for just one aside, as the endless night wore on. Annie had arrived, superbly horrified and stricken, and Acton was there. Mrs. Melrose was still breathing. The sickly light of a winter morningwas tugging at the shutters. 

"Norma, " Chris said, "do you realize what a tremendous thing hashappened to you? Do you realize who you are? You are a rich woman now, my dear!"

"But do you believe it?" she asked, in a low tone. 

"I know it is true! It explains everything, " he answered. "It will be acruel blow to Leslie--poor child, and Annie, too. Alice, I think, neednever know. But Norma--even though this doesn't seem the time or theplace, let me be the first to congratulate you on your new position--myold friend Theodore's daughter, and the last of the Melroses!"

At seven o'clock in the morning Norma, exhausted with excitement andemotion, took a hot bath, and finding things unchanged in the sick-room, except that the lights had been extinguished, and the winter daylightwas drearily mingling with firelight, went on downstairs for coffee andfor one more conference with the blinking nurses and the tired olddoctor. She found herself too shaken to eat, but the hot drink waswonderfully soothing and stimulating, and for the first time, as shestood looking out into the street from the dining-room window, a senseof power and pride began to thrill her. Old people must die, of course, and after this sad and dark scene was over--then what? Then what? Thenshe would be in Leslie's long-envied place, the heiress, the importantfigure among all the changes that followed. 

"If you please, Mrs. Sheridan----!" It was Joseph, haggard and white, who had come softly behind her to interrupt her thoughts. She glancedwith quick apprehension toward the hall stairway. There had been achange----?

"No, it was the telephone, Miss. " Norma, puzzled by the old butler'sstricken air, went to the instrument. It was Miss Slater. 

"Norma, " Miss Slater said, agitatedly, "is Mr. Liggett--there?"

"I think he's with Aunt Annie, upstairs, but he's going home abouteight, " Norma answered. "There is no change. Is Aunt Alice awake? Mr. Liggett wanted to be there when she woke!"

"No--she's not awake, " the other woman's voice said, solemnly. "She wentto sleep like a child last night, Norma. But about half an hour ago Iwent in--she hadn't called me--it was just instinct, I suppose! She waslying--hadn't changed her position even----"

"_What's that!_" Norma cried, in a whisper that was like a scream. Thegrave voice and the sudden break of tears chilled her to the soul. 

"We've had Doctor Merrill here, " Miss Slater said. "Norma, you'll haveto tell him--God help us all! She's gone!"

CHAPTER XXXI

Mrs. Melrose never spoke again, or showed another flicker of the clearand normal intelligence that she had shown in the night. But she stillbreathed, and the long, wet day dragged slowly, in the big, mournful oldhouse, until late in the unnatural afternoon. People--all sorts ofpeople--were coming and going now, and being answered, or being turnedaway; a few privileged old friends came softly up the carpeted stairs, and cried quietly with Annie, who looked unbelievably old and ashenunder the double shock. Norma began to hear, on all sides, respectfuland sympathetic references to "the family. " The family felt this, andwould like that, the family was not seeing any one, the family must beprotected and considered in every way. The privileged old friends talkedwith strange men in the lower hall, and were heard saying "I suppose so"dubiously, to questions of hats and veils and carriages and the church. 

Chris was gone all day, but at four o'clock an urgent message was senthim, and he and Acton came into Mrs. Melrose's room about half an hourlater, for the end. His face was ghastly, and he seemed almost unable tounderstand what was said to him, but he was very quiet. 

Norma never forgot the scene. She knelt on one side of the bed, prayingwith all the concentration and fervour that she could rally under thecircumstances. But her frightened, tired eyes were impressed with everydetail of the dark old stately bedroom none the less. This was the endof the road, for youth and beauty and power and wealth, this sunken, unrecognizable face, this gathering of shadows among the dull, wintryshadows of the afternoon. 

Annie was kneeling, too, her fine, unringed hands clasping one of hermother's hands. Chris sat against the back of the bed, half-supportingthe piled pillows, in a futile attempt to make more easy the fightingbreath, and Acton and Hendrick von Behrens, grave and awed, stood besidehim, their faces full of sympathy and distress. There was an outerfringe of nurses, doctors, maids; there was even an audible whisper fromone of them that caused Annie to frown, annoyed and rebuking, over hershoulder. 

Minutes passed. Norma, pressing her cheek against the hand she held, began a Litany, very low. Suddenly the dying woman opened her eyes. 

"Yes--yes--yes!" she whispered, eagerly, and with a break in herfrightened voice Norma began more clearly, "Our Father, Who art inHeaven----" and they all joined in, somewhat awkwardly and uncertainly. 

Mrs. Melrose sank back; she had raised herself just a fraction of aninch to speak. Now her head fell, and Norma saw the florid colour drainfrom her face as wine drains from an overturned glass. A leaden pallorsettled suddenly upon her. When the prayer was finished theywaited--eyed each other--waited again. There was no other breath. 

"Doctor----" Annie cried, choking. The doctor gently laid down the limphand he had raised; it was already cool. And behind him the maids beganto sob and wail unrebuked. 

Norma went out into the hall dazed and shaken. This was her first sightof death. It made her feel a little faint and sick. Chris came andtalked to her for a few minutes; Annie had collapsed utterly, and wasunder the doctor's care; Acton broke down, too, and Norma heard Chrisattempting to quiet him. There was audible sobbing all over the housewhen, an hour or two later, Alice's beautiful body in a magnificentcasket was brought to lie in the old home beside the mother she hadadored. 

The fragrance of masses and masses of damp flowers began to penetrateeverywhere, and Norma made occasional pilgrimages in to Annie's bedside, and told her what beautiful offerings were coming and coming and coming. Joseph had reinforcements of sympathetic, black-clad young men, who keptopening the front door, and murmuring at the muffled telephone. Annie'ssecretary, a young woman about Norma's age, was detailed by Hendrick tokeep cards and messages straight--for every little courtesy must beacknowledged on Annie's black-bordered card within a few weeks'time--and Norma heard Joseph telephoning several of the prominentflorists that Mr. Liggett had directed that all flowers were to come tothe Melrose house. Nothing was overlooked. 

When Norma went to her room, big boxes were on the bed, boxes that heldeverything that was simple and beautiful in mourning: plain, charmingfrocks, a smart long seal-bordered coat, veils and gloves, small andelegant hats, even black-bordered handkerchiefs. She dressed herselfsoberly, yet not without that mournful thrill that fitness andbecomingness lends to bereavement. When she went back to Annie's sideAnnie was in beautiful lengths of lustreless crape, too; they settleddown to low, sad conversation, with a few of the privileged old friends. Chris was nowhere to be seen, but at about six o'clock Acton came in toshow them a telegram from Leslie, flying homeward. Judge Lee washurrying to them from Washington, and for a few minutes Annie'shandsome, bewildered little boys came in with a governess, and she criedover them, and clung to them forlornly. 

After a distracted half-hour in the dining-room, when she and Acton andAnnie's secretary had soup and salad from a sort of buffet meal that wasgoing on there indefinitely, Norma went upstairs to find that the doorto the front upper sitting-room, closed for hours, was set ajar, and tosee a vague mass of beautiful flowers within--white and purple flowers, and wreaths of shining dark round leaves. With a quick-beating heart shestepped softly inside, and went to kneel at the nearer coffin, and coverher face with her shaking hands. The thick sweetness of the wet leavesand blossoms enveloped her. Candles were burning; there was no otherlight. 

Two or three other women were in the room, catching their breath upthrough their nostrils with little gasps, pressing folded handkerchiefsagainst their trembling mouths, letting fresh tears well from theirtear-reddened eyes. Chris was standing a few feet away from thewhite-clad, flower-circled, radiant sleeper who had been Alice; his armswere folded, his splendid dark gaze fell upon her with a sort of sombrecalm; he seemed entirely unconscious of the pitying and sorrowfulfriends who were moving noiselessly to and fro. 

In the candlelight there was a wavering smile on Alice's quiet face, herbroad forehead was unruffled, and her mouth mysteriously sweet. Norma'seyes fell upon a familiar black coat, on the kneeling woman nearest her, and with a start she recognized Aunt Kate. 

They left the room together a few minutes later, and Norma led her auntto her own room, where they talked tenderly of the dead. The older womanwas touched by the slender little black figure, and badly shaken by thedouble tragedy, and she cried quite openly. Norma had Regina send her upsome tea, and petted and fussed about her in her little daughterly way. 

"I saw about Miss Alice this morning, but I had no idea the poor oldlady----!" Mrs. Sheridan commented sadly. "Well, well, it seems onlyyesterday that here, in this very house--and they were all youngthen----" Aunt Kate fell silent, and mused for a moment, before addingbriskly: "But now, will they want you, Norma, after the funeral, I mean?Wolf wrote me----"

"I don't think Aunt Annie wants me now, " Norma said, and with aheightened colour she added, suddenly, "But I belong here, now, AuntKate--I know who I am at last!"

Mrs. Sheridan's face did not move; but an indefinable tightness cameabout her mouth, and an indefinable sharpness to her eyes. She looked atNorma without speaking. 

"Aunt Marianna told me, " the girl said, simply. "You're sorry, " sheadded, quickly, "I can see you are!"

"No--I wouldn't say that, Baby!" But Mrs. Sheridan spoke heavily, andended on a sigh. There was a short silence. 

Then Regina came in with a note for Norma, who read it, and turned toher aunt. 

"It's Chris--he wants very much to see you before you go away, " shesaid. "I wonder if you would ask Mr. Liggett to come in here, Regina?"But five minutes later, when Chris came in, he looked so ill that shewas quick to spare him. "Chris, wouldn't to-morrow do--you look sotired!"

"I _am_ tired, " Chris said, after quietly accepting Mrs. Sheridan'smurmured condolence, with his hand holding hers, as if he liked the big, sympathetic woman. "But I want this off my mind before I see Judge Lee!You are right, Mrs. Sheridan, " he said, with a sort of boyish gruffness, not yet releasing her hands, "my wife was an angel. I always knewit--but I wish I could tell her so just once more!"

"Ah, that's the very hardest thing about death, " Mrs. Sheridan said, sitting down, and quite frankly wiping from her eyes the tears thatsympathy for his sorrow had made spring again. "We'd always want onemore hour!"

"But Norma perhaps has told you----?" Chris said, in a different tone. "Told you of the--the remarkable talk we had yesterday--with my poormother-in-law----"

Kate Sheridan nodded gravely. 

"Yes, " she answered, almost reluctantly, "Norma is Theodore Melrose'schild. I have letters--all their letters. I knew her mother, that wasLouison Courtot, well. It was a mixed-up business--but you've got thewhole truth at last. I've lost more than one night's sleep over my shareof it, Mr. Liggett, thinking who this child was, and whether I had theright to hold my tongue. 

"I was a widow when I went to Germany with Mrs. Melrose. She begged andbegged me to, for she was sick with worry about Miss Annie. Miss Anniehad been over there about eight months, and something she'd written hadmade her mother feel that she was ill, or in trouble. Well, I didn'twant to leave my own children, but she coaxed me so hard that I went. Wesailed without cabling, and went straight to Leipsic, and to thedreadful, dreary pension that Miss Annie was in--a dismal, lonely place. She came downstairs to see her mother, and I'll never forget the screamshe gave, for she'd had no warning, poor child, and Müller had taken allher money, and she was--well, we could see how she was. She beganlaughing and crying, and her mother did, too, but Mrs. Melrose stoppedafter a few minutes, and we couldn't stop Miss Annie at all. Sheshrieked and sobbed and strangled until we saw she was ill, and hermother gave me one look, and bundled her right out to the carriage, andoff to a better place, and we got a doctor and a nurse. But all thatnight she was in danger of her life. I went in to her room that evening, to put things in order, and she was lying on the bed like a deadthing--white, sick, and with her eyes never moving off her mother'sface. I could hear her murmuring the whole story, the shame and thebitter cruelty of it, crying sometimes--and her mother crying, too. 

"'And, Mama, ' she said--the innocence of her! 'Mama, did the doctor tellyou that there might have been a baby?--I didn't know it myself until afew weeks ago! And that's why they're so frightened about me now. But, 'she said, beginning to cry again, 'I should have hated it--I've alwayshated it, and I'd rather have it all over--I don't want to have to faceanything more!'

"Well, it looked then as if she couldn't possibly live through thenight, and all her mother could think of was to comfort her. She toldher that they would go away and forget it all, and Miss Annie clung toher through the whole terrible thing. We none of us got any sleep thatnight, and I think it was at about three o'clock the next morning that Icrept to the door, and the doctor--Doctor Leslie--an old English doctorwho was very kind, came to the door and gave me the poor little pitifulbaby in a blanket. I almost screamed when I took it, for the poor littlesoul was alive, working her little mouth! I took her to my room, andindeed I baptized her myself--I named her Mary for my mother, and Lesliefor the doctor, but I never thought she'd need a name--then. She wasunder four pounds, and with a little claw like a monkey's paw, and sothin we didn't dare dress her--we thought she was three months too soon, then, and I just sat watching her, waiting for her to die, and thinkingof my own----!

"Miss Annie was given up the next day, she'd gone into a brain fever, but my poor little soul was wailing a good healthy wail--I remember Icried bitterly when the doctor told me not to hope for her! But shelived--and on the fourth day Mrs. Melrose sent us away, and we went andstayed in the country for two months after that. 

"Then I had a letter from the Riviera, the first that'd come. Miss Anniewas getting well, her hair was coming out curly, and she hardlyremembered anything about what had happened at all. She wasn't nineteenthen, poor child! She had cried once, her mother wrote, and had said shethanked God the baby had died and that was all she ever said of it. 

"I brought the baby home, and for nearly three years she lived with myown, and of course Mrs. Melrose paid me for it. And then one day LouisonCourtot came to see me--I'd known her, of course--Mr. Theodore's wife, that had been Miss Annie's maid. She had a letter from Mrs. Melrose, andshe took Leslie away, and gave her to her grandmother--just according toplan. Well, I didn't like it--though it gave the child her rights, butit didn't seem honest. I had no call to interfere, and a few monthslater Mrs. Melrose gave me the double house in Brooklyn, that you'llwell remember, Norma--and your own father made out the deed of gift, Mr. Chris----!

"And then, perhaps a year later, Louison came to call on me again, andwith her was a little girl--four years old, and I looked at her, andlooked at Louison, and I said, 'My God--that's a Melrose!' She said, yes, it was Theodore's child. "

"Norma!" Chris said. 

"Norma--and I remember her as if it was yesterday! With a blue velvetcoat on her, and a white collar, and the way she dragged off her littlemittens to go over and play with Rose and Wolf--and the little coaxingair she had! So then Louison told me the story, how she had never toldMrs. Melrose that Theodore really had a daughter, because she hated herso! But she was going to be married again, and go to Canada, and shewanted me to keep the baby until she could send for her. I said I wouldsee how it went, but I could see then that there never was in theworld----" Mrs. Sheridan interrupted herself, coughed, and glanced atthe girl. "Well, we liked Norma right then and there!" she finished, alittle tamely. 

"Oh, Aunt Kate!" Norma said, smiling through tears, her hand tight uponthe older woman's, "you never will praise me!"

"So Norma, " the story went on, "had her supper that night between my twochildren, and for fourteen years she never knew that she wasn't our own. And perhaps she never would have known if Louison hadn't written me thatshe was in a hospital--she was to have an operation, and she was willingat last to make peace with her husband's family. In the same letter washer husband's note that she was gone, so I had to use my own judgmentthen. And when I heard Norma talk of the rich girls she saw in thebookstore, Mr. Chris, and knew how she loved what money could do forher, it seemed to me that at least I must tell her grandmother thetruth. So we came here, three years ago, and if it wasn't for MissAlice's mistake about her, perhaps the story would have come out then!But that's all the truth. "

Chris nodded, his arms folded on his chest, his tired face verythoughtful. 

"It makes her a rich woman, Mrs. Sheridan, " he said. 

"I suppose so, sir. I understand Mr. Melrose--the old gentleman--lefteverything to his son, Theodore. "

"But not only that, " Chris said. "She can claim every penny that hasever been paid over to Leslie, all through her minority, and since shecame of age, and she also inherits the larger part of her grandmother'sestate, under the will. Probably Mrs. Melrose would have changed that, if she had lived when all this came to light, and given that same legacyto Leslie, but we can't act on that supposition. The court willprobably feel that a very grave injustice has been done Norma, and exactthe full arrears. "

"But, Chris, " Norma said, quickly, "surely some way can be found to_give_ Leslie all that would have come to me----"

"Well, that, of course, would be pure generosity on your part!" he said, quietly. "However, it would seem to me desirable all round, " he added, "to keep this in the family. "

"Oh, I think so!" Norma agreed, eagerly. 

"Annie and Hendrick must be informed, and, as Leslie's mother, Anniewill provide for her some day, of course. We'll discuss all that later. But to-day I only wanted to clear up a few points before I see JudgeLee. He has the will, I believe. He will be here to-morrow morning. Inthe meanwhile, I think I would say nothing, Norma, just because Annie isso upset, and if Leslie heard any garbled story, before she gothere----"

"Oh, I agree with you entirely, Chris! Anything that makes it easier allround!" Norma could afford to be magnanimous and agreeable. She wouldnot have been human not to feel herself the most interesting figure inall this dramatic situation, not to know that thoughtfulness andgenerosity were the most charming parts of her new rôle. Quietly, affectionately, she went to the door with Aunt Kate. 

"I wish I could go home with you!" she said. "But I think they need mehere! And if Wolf should come up Saturday, Aunt Kate, you'll tell himabout the funeral----"

"Rose said he wasn't coming up on Saturday, " his mother said. "But if hedoes, of course he'll understand! Remember, Norma, " she added, drawingthe girl aside a moment, in the lower hall, "remember that they've allbeen very kind to you, dear! It's going to be hard for them all!"

"Yes, I know!" Norma said, hastily, the admonition not to her taste. 

"And what you and Wolf will do with all that money----!" her aunt mused, shaking her head. "Well, one thing at a time! But I know, " she finished, fondly, "my girl will show them all what a generous and a lovely natureshe has, in all the changes and shifts!"

Clever Aunt Kate! Norma smiled to herself as she went upstairs. She hadhundreds of times before this guided the girl by premature confidenceand praise; she knew how Norma loved the approbation of those about her. 

Not but what Norma meant to be everything that was broad and consideratenow; she had assumed that position from the beginning. Leslie's chagrin, Aunt Annie's consternation, should be respected and humoured. They hadsometimes shown her the arrogant, the supercilious side of the Melrosenature, in the years gone by. Now she, the truest Melrose of them all, would show them real greatness of soul. She would talk it all over withWolf, of course----

She missed Wolf. It was, as always, a curiously unsatisfying atmosphere, this of the old Melrose house. The whispers, the hushed footsteps, thelowered voices, Aunt Annie's plaintive heroism in her superb crapes, thealmost belligerent loyalty of the intimate friends who praised andmarvelled at her, the costly flowers--thousands of dollars' worth ofthem--the extra men helping Joseph to keep everything decorous andbeautiful--somehow it all sickened Norma, and she wished that Wolfcould come and take her for a walk, and talk to her about it. He wouldbe interested in it all, and he would laugh at her account of theundertakers, and he would break into elementary socialism when the costof the whole pompous pageant was estimated. 

And what would he think of her new-found wealth? Norma tried to imagineit, but somehow she could not think of Wolf as very much affected. Hehated society, primarily, and he would never be idle, not for thetreasures of India. He would let her spend it as she pleased, and go onworking rapturously at his valves and meters and gauges, perhapsdelighted if she bought him the costliest motor-car made, or the finestof mechanical piano-players, but quite as willing that the pearls abouthis wife's throat should cost fifty dollars as fifty thousand, and quiteas anxious that the heiress of the Melroses should "make good" with hisassociate workers as if she had been still a little clerk from Biretta'sBookshop!

But cheerfully indifferent as he was to everything that made life worthliving to such a man as Christopher Liggett, she knew that he would notgo to California without her unless there was a definite break betweenthem. She knew she could not persuade him to leave her here, as a normaland pleasant solution, just until everything was settled, and until theycould see a little further ahead. No, Wolf was annoyingly conventionalwhere his wife was concerned: her place was with him, unless for somesecondary reason they had decided to part. And she knew that if he lether go it would be because he felt that he never should have claimedher--that, in the highest sense, he never had had her at all. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Moving automatically through the solemn scenes of the next two days, that, mused Norma, must be the solution. Wolf must go alone toCalifornia. Not because she did not love him--who could help loving himindeed?--but because she loved Chris more--or differently, at least, andshe belonged to Chris's world now, by every right of birth, wealth, andposition. 

"Of course you must stay here, " Chris said, positively, on the oneoccasion when they spoke of her plans. "In the first place, there is theestate to settle, we shall need you. Then there are books--pictures--allthat sort of thing to manage, the old servants to dispose of, andprobably this house to sell--but we can discuss that. Judge Lee has feltfor a long time that this is the right site for a big apartment house, especially if we can get hold of Boyer's plot. You had better take asuite at one of the hotels, and later we can look up the right sort ofan apartment for you. "

Not a word of his personal hopes; missing them she felt oddly cheated. 

"Wolf goes to California next month, " she said. Christopher gave her asharp, quizzing look. 

"But I think you had decided, weeks ago, that you were not going?"

"Yes--I've told him so!" she faltered. She felt strangely lost andforlorn, releasing her hold on Wolf, and yet not able to claimChristopher's support. It was contemptible--it was weak in her, shefelt, but she could not quite choke down her hunger for one reassuringword from Chris. "I feel so--lonely, Chris, " she said. 

He gave a quick, uneasy glance about the breakfast-room, where they werehaving a hasty three-o'clock luncheon. No one was within hearing. 

"You understand my position now, " he said. 

"Oh, of course!" But she felt oddly chilled. Chris as the bereavedhusband and son-in-law was perfect, of course, almost too perfect. IfWolf loved a woman----

But then the fancy of Wolf, married, and confessedly loving a woman whowas another man's wife, was absurd, anyway. Wolf did not belong to theworld where such things were common, it was utterly foreign to hisnature, with all the rest. Wolf did not go to operas and picturegalleries and polo matches; he did not know how to comport himself atafternoon teas or summer lunches at the country club. 

And Norma's life would be spent in this atmosphere now. She would gether frocks from Madame Modiste, and her hats from the Avenuespecialists; she would be a smart and a conspicuous little figure atLenox and Bar Harbour and Newport; she would spend her days withmasseuses and dressmakers, and with French and Italian teachers. Shecould travel, some day--but here the thought of Chris crept in, and shewas a little hurt at Chris. His exquisite poise, his sureness of beingabsolutely correct, was one of his charms. But it was a little hard notto have the depth of his present feeling for her sweep him off his feetjust occasionally. He had, indeed, shown her far more daring favourwhen Alice was alive--meeting Norma down town, driving her about, walking with her where they might reasonably fear to be seen now andthen. 

It came to her painfully that, even there, Chris's respect for theconventions of his world was not at fault. Flirtations, "crushes, ""cases, " and "suitors" were entirely acceptable in the circle that Chrisso conspicuously ornamented. To pay desperate attentions to a prettyyoung married woman was quite excusable; it would have been universallyunderstood. 

But to show the faintest trace of interest in her while his wife laydead, and while his house was plunged into mourning, no--Chris would notdo that. That would not be good form, it would be censured as not beingcompatible with the standard of a gentleman. His conduct now must bebeyond criticism, he was the domestic dictator in this, as in everyemergency. Norma listened while he and Hendrick and Annie discussed thefuneral. 

They were in the big upstairs bedroom that Annie had appropriated toherself during these days. Annie was resting on a couch in a nest oflittle pillows, her long bare hands very white against the blackness ofher gown. Hendrick did most of the talking, Chris listeningthoughtfully, accepting, rejecting, Norma a mere spectator. She decidedthat Annie was playing her part with a stimulating consciousness of itsdignity, and that Chris was not much better. Honest, red-faced Hendrickwas only genuinely anxious to arrange these details without a scene. 

"I take Annie up the aisle, " Chris said, "you'll be a pall-bearer, Hendrick. Mrs. Lee says that the Judge feels he is too old to serve, sohe will follow me, with Leslie. She gets here this afternoon. ThenActon brings Norma, and that fills the family pew. Now, in the nextpew----"

It reminded Norma of something, she could not for a moment rememberwhat. Then it came to her. Of course!--Leslie's wedding. They haddiscussed precedence and pews just that way. Music, too. Hendrick wasmaking a note of music--Alice's favourite dirge was to be played, and"Come Ye Disconsolate" which had been sung at Theodore's funeral, thirteen years ago, and at his father's, seven years before that, was tobe sung by the famous church choir. 

The church was unfortunately small, so cards were to be given to the fewhundreds that it would accommodate. Hendrick suggested a larger church, but Annie shut her eyes, leaning back, and faintly shaking her head. 

"Please--Hendrick--_please_!" she articulated, wearily. "Mama loved thatchurch--and there's so little that we can do now--so little that sheever wanted, dear old saint!"

It was not hypocrisy, Norma thought. Annie had been a good daughter. Indeed she had been unusually loyal, as the daughters of Annie's set sawtheir filial duties. But something in this overwhelming, becoming grief, combined with so lively a sense of what was socially correct, jarredunpleasantly on the younger woman. Of course, funerals had to havemanagement, like everything else. And it was only part of Annie's codeto believe that an awkwardness now, a social error ever so faint, anopportunity given the world for amusement or criticism, would reflectupon the family and upon the dead. 

Norma carried on long mental conversations with Wolf, criticizing ordefending the Melroses. She imagined herself telling him of the shock ithad given her to realize that her grandmother's body was barely coldbefore an autocratic and noisy French hairdresser had arrived, demandingelectric heat and hand-glasses as casually as if his customer had beenthe bustling, vain old lady of a week ago. She laughed secretly whenevershe recalled the solemn undertaker who had solicited her own aid infilling out a blank. His first melancholy question, "And thud dame ofthe father----" Norma had momentarily supposed to be the beginning of aprayer, and it had been with an almost hysterical revulsion of feelingthat she had said: "Oh, her father's name? Oh, Francis Dabney Murison. "

Wolf, who would not laugh at one tenth of the things that amused Chris, or that Annie found richly funny, would laugh at these little glimpsesof a formal funeral, Norma knew, and he would remember other odd bits ofreading that were in the same key--from Macaulay, or Henry George, or ascrap of newspaper that had chanced to be pasted upon an engine-housewall. 

Leslie came into the house late on the afternoon of Friday, and therewas much fresh crying between her and Annie. Leslie had on new black, too, "just what I could grab down there, " she explained--and was pettishand weary with fatigue and the nervous shock. She gave only the side ofher cheek to Acton's dutiful kiss, and answered his question about thebaby with an impatient, "Oh, heavens, she's all _right_! What could bethe matter with her? She did have a cold, but now she's all right--andwhen I'm half-crazy about Grandma and poor Aunt Alice, I do _wish_ youwouldn't take me up so quickly. I've been travelling all night, and myhead is splitting! If it was _I_ that had the cold, I don't believeyou'd be so fussy!"

"Poor little girl, it's hard for you not to have seen them once more, "Christopher said, tenderly, failing to meet the half-amused andhalf-indignant glance that Norma sent him. Leslie burst intoself-pitying tears, and held tight to his hand, as they all sat down inAnnie's room. 

"I believe I feel it most for you, Uncle Chris, " she sobbed. 

"It changes my life--ends it as surely as it did hers, " Chris said, quietly. "Just now--well, I don't see ahead--just now. After awhile Ibelieve she'll come back to me--her sweetness and goodness andbigness--for Alice was the biggest woman, and the finest, that I everknew; and then I'll try to live again--just as she would have had me. And meanwhile, I try to comfort myself that I tried to show her, inwhatever clumsy way I could, that I appreciated her!"

"You not only showed her, you showed all the world, Chris, " Annie said, stretching a hand toward him. Norma felt a sudden uprising of someemotion singularly akin to contempt. 

A maid signalled her, and she stepped to the dressing-room door. Aspecial delivery letter had come from Wolf. The maid went away again, but Norma stood where she was, reading it. Wolf had written:

 DEAR NORMA, Mother wrote me of all that you have been going through, and I am as sorry as I can be for all their trouble, and glad that they have you to help them through. Mother also told me of the change in your position there; I had always known vaguely that we didn't understand it all. I remember now your coming to us in Brooklyn, and your mother crying when she went away. I know this will make a difference to you, and be one more reason for your not coming West with me. You must use your own judgment, but the longer I think of it, the meaner it seems to me for me to take advantage of your coming to me, last spring, and our getting married. I've thought about it a great deal. Nothing will ever make me like, or respect, the man you say you care for. I don't believe you do care for him. And I would rather see you dead than married to him. But it isn't for me to say, of course. If you like him, that's enough. If you ever stop liking him, and will come back to me, I'll meet you anywhere, or take you anywhere--it won't make any difference what Mother thinks, or Rose thinks, or any one else. I've written and destroyed this letter about six times. I just want you to know that if you think I am standing in the way of your happiness, I won't stand there, even though I believe you are making an awful mistake about that particular man. And I want to thank you for the happiest eight months that any man ever had. 

 Yours always, WOLF. 

Norma stood perfectly still, after she read the letter through, with theclutch of vague pain and shame at her heart. The stiff, stilted wordsdid not seem like Wolf, and the definite casting-off hurt her. Whycouldn't they be friends, at least? Granted that their marriage was amistake, it had never had anything but harmony in it, companionship, mutual respect and understanding, and a happy intimacy as clean andnatural as the meeting of flowers. 

She was standing, motionless and silent, when Leslie's voice cameclearly to her ears. Evidently Acton, Annie, and Leslie were alone, inAnnie's room, out of sight, but not a dozen feet away from where shestood. Norma did not catch the exact words, but she caught her name, andher heart stood still with the instinctive terror of the trapped. Anniehad not heard either evidently; she said "What, dear?" sympathetically. 

"I asked what's Norma doing here--isn't she overdoing her relationship alittle?" Leslie said, languidly. 

Norma's face burned, she could hardly breathe as she waited. 

"Mama sent for her, for some reason, " Annie answered, with a littledrawl. 

"After all, she's a sort of cousin, isn't she?" Acton added. 

"Oh, don't jump on me for _everything_ I say, Acton, " Leslie said, angrily. "My _goodness_----!"

"Chris says that Mama left her the Melrose Building--and I don't knowwhat besides!" Annie said. There was a moment of silence. 

"I don't believe it! What for!" Leslie exclaimed, then, incredulously. And after another silence she added, in a puzzled tone, "Do _you_understand it, Aunt Annie?"

Evidently Annie answered with a glance or a shrug, for there was anotherpause before Annie said:

"What I don't like about it, and what I do wish Mama had thought of, isthe way that people comment on a thing like that. It's not as if Normaneeded it; she has a husband to take care of her, now, and it makes us alittle ridiculous! One likes to feel that, at a time like this, everything is to be done decently, at least--not enormous legacies tocomparative strangers----"

"I like Norma, we've all been kind to her, " Leslie contributed, asAnnie's voice died listlessly away. "I've always made allowances forher. But I confess that it was rather a surprise to find her here, oneof the family----! After all, we Melroses have always rather pridedourselves on standing together, haven't we? If she wants to wear blackfor Grandma, why, it makes no difference to _me_----"

"I suppose the will could be broken without any notoriety, Chris?" Annieasked, in an undertone. Norma's heart turned sick. She had not supposedthat Chris was listening without protest to this conversation. 

"No, " she heard him say, briefly and definitely, "that's impossible!"

"It isn't the money----" Annie began. But Leslie interrupted with abitter little laugh. 

"It may not be with you, Aunt Annie, but I assure you I wouldn't mind afew extra thousands, " she said. 

"I think you get the Newport house, Leslie, " Chris said, in a tone whosedubiety only Norma could understand. 

"The Newport house!" Leslie exclaimed. "Why, but don't I own _this_, now? I thought----"

"I don't really know, " Chris answered. "We'll open the will next week, and then we'll straighten everything out. "

"In the meanwhile, " Annie said, lazily, "if she suggests going back toher own family, for Heaven's sake don't stop her! I like Norma--alwayshave. But after all, there are times when _any_ outsider--no matter howagreeable she is----"

"I think she'll go immediately after the funeral, " Chris said, constrainedly and uncertainly. 

Norma, suddenly roused both to a realization of the utter impropriety ofher overhearing all this, and the danger of detection, slipped from thedressing-room by the hall door, and so escaped to her own room. 

She shut the door behind her, walked irresolutely to the bed, stoodthere for a moment, with her hands pressed to her cheeks, walked blindlyto the window, only to pause again, paced the room mechanically for afew minutes, and finally found herself seated on the broad, old-fashioned sill of the dressing-room window, staring down unseeing atthe afternoon traffic in Madison Avenue. 

Oh, how she hated them--cruel, selfish, self-satisfiedsnobs--snobs--snobs that they were! Leslie--Leslie "making allowancesfor her!" Leslie making allowances for _her_! And Annie--hoping that forHeaven's sake nobody would prevent her from going home after thefuneral! The remembered phrases burned and stung like acid upon hersoul; she wanted to hurt Annie and Leslie as they had hurt her, shewanted to shame them and anger them. 

Yes, and she could do it, too! She could do it! They little knew thatwithin a few days' time utter consternation and upheaval, notoriety andshame, and the pity of their intimates, would disrupt the surface oftheir lives, that surface that they felt it so important to keep smooth!"People will comment, " Norma quoted to herself, with a bittersmile--indeed people would comment, as they had never commented evenupon the Melroses before! Leslie would be robbed not only of herinheritance but of her name and of her position. And Annie--evenmagnificent Aunt Annie must accept, with what surface veneer ofcordiality she might affect, the only child of her only brother, theheir to the family estate. 

"I believe I'm horribly tired, " Norma said to herself, looking out intothe dimming winter day, "or else I'm nervous, or something! I wish Icould go over to Rose's and help her put the children to bed----! Or Iwish Aunt Kate would telephone for me--I'm sick of this place! Or I wishWolf would come walking around that corner--oh, if he would--if hewould----!" Norma said, staring out with an intensity so great that itseemed to her for the moment that Wolf indeed might come. "If only he'dcome to take me to dinner, at some little Italian place with a backyard, and skyscrapers all about, so that we could talk!"

Regina, coming in a little later, saw that Mrs. Sheridan had beencrying, and reproached her with the affectionate familiarity of an oldservitor. 

"You that were always so light-hearted, Miss, it don't seem right foryou to grieve so!" said Regina, a little tearful herself. Norma smiled, and wiped her eyes. 

"This is a nice beginning, " the girl told herself, as she bathed anddressed for the evening ordeal of calls, and messages, and solemn visitsto the chamber of death, "this is a nice beginning for a woman who knowsthat the man she loves is free to marry her, and who has just fallenheir to a great fortune!"

CHAPTER XXXIII

The evening moved through its dark and sombre hours unchanged; Joseph'sassistants opened and opened and opened the door. More flowers--moreflowers--and more. Notes, telephone messages, black-clad callersmurmuring in the dimness of the lower hall, maids coming noiselessly anddeferentially, the clergyman, the doctor, the choir-master, old JudgeLee tremulous and tedious, all her world circled about the lifeless formof the old mistress of the house. Certain persons went quietly upstairs, women in rich furs, and bare-headed, uncomfortable-looking men, enteredthe front room, and passed through with serious faces and slowly shakingheads. 

Chris spoke to Norma in the hall, just after she had said good-night tosome rather important callers, assuring them that Annie and Leslie werewell, and had been kissed herself as their representative. He extendedher a crushed document in which she was alarmed to recognize Wolf'sletter. 

"Oh--I think I dropped that in Aunt Annie's dressing-room!" Norma said, turning scarlet, and wondering what eyes had seen it. 

"There was no envelope; a maid brought it to her, and Annie read it, "Chris said. Norma's eyes were racing through it. 

"There are no names!" she said, thankfully. 

"It would have been a most unfortunate--a--a horrible thing, if therehad been, " Chris commented. Something in his manner said as plainly aswords that dropping the letter had been a breach of good manners, hadbeen extremely careless, almost reprehensible. Norma felt herselfunreasonably antagonized. 

"Oh, I don't know! It's true, " she said, recklessly. 

"Annie is a very important person in your plans, Norma, " Chris remindedher. "It would be most regrettable for you to lose your head now, togive everyone an opportunity of criticizing you. I should advise you toenlist your Aunt Annie's sympathies just as soon as you can. She is, ofall the world, the one woman who can direct you--help you equipyourself--tell you what to get, and how to establish yourself. If Anniechose to be unfriendly, to ignore you----"

"I don't see Annie von Behrens ignoring me--now!" Norma said, withanger, and throwing her head back proudly. They were in a curtainedalcove on the landing of the angled stairway, completely hidden by thegreat curtain and by potted palms. "When my revered aunt realizes----"

"Your money will have absolutely no effect on Annie, " Chris said, quickly. 

"No, but what I _am_ will!" Norma answered, breathing hard. 

"Not while we keep it to ourselves, as of course we must, " Chrisanswered, in displeasure. "No one but ourselves will ever know----"

"The whole world will know!" Norma said, in sudden impatience withsmoothing and hiding and pretending. Chris straightened his eyeglasseson their ribbon, and gave her his scrutinizing, unruffled glance. 

"That would be foolish, I think, Norma!" he told her, calmly. "It wouldbe a most unnecessary piece of vulgarity. Old families are constantlyhushing up unfortunate chapters in their history; there is no reason whythe whole thing should not be kept an absolute secret. My dear girl, youhave just had a most extraordinary piece of good fortune--but you mustbe very careful how you take it! You will be--you are--a tremendouslywealthy woman--and you will be in the public eye. Upon how you conductyourself now your future position largely depends. Annie can--and Ibelieve will--gladly assist you. Acton and Leslie will go abroad, Isuppose--they can't live here. But a breath of scandal--or anill-advised slip on your part--would make us all ridiculous. You mustplay your cards carefully. If you could stay with Annie, now----"

"I _hate_ Aunt Annie!" Norma interrupted, childishly. 

"My dear girl--you're over-tired, you don't mean what you say!" Chrissaid, putting his hand on her arm. Under the light touch she dropped hereyes, and stood still. "Norma, do be advised by me in this, " he urgedher earnestly. "It is one of the most important crises in your life. Annie can put you exactly where you want to be, introduced and acceptedeverywhere--a constant guest in her house, in her opera box, or Anniecan drop you--I've seen her do it!--and it would take you ten years tomake up the lost ground!"

"It didn't take Annie ten years to be a--a--social leader!" Normaargued, resentfully. 

"Annie? Ah, my dear, a woman like Annie isn't born twice in a hundredyears! She has--but you know what she has, Norma. Languages, experiences, friends--most of all she has the grand manner--the _belleaire_. "

Norma was fighting to regain her composure over almost unbearable hurtand chagrin. 

"But, Chris, " she argued, desperately, "you've always said that you hadno particular use for Annie's crowd--that you'd rather live in somelittle Italian place--or travel slowly through India----"

"I said I would like to do that, and so I would!" he answered. "Butbelieve me, Norma, your money makes a very different sort of thingpossible now, and you would be mad--you would be _mad_!--to throw itaway. Put yourself in Annie's hands, " he finished, with the first hintof his old manner that she had seen for forty-eight hours, "and haveyour car, your maids, your little establishment on the upper East Side, and then--then"--and now his arm was about her, and he had tipped up herface close to his own--"and then you and I will break our littlesurprise to them!" he said, kindly. "Only be careful, Norma. Don't letthem say that you did anything ostentatious or conspicuous----"

She freed herself, her heart cold and desolate almost beyond bearing, and Chris answered her as if she had spoken. 

"Yes--and I must go, too! To-morrow will be a terrible day for us all. Oh, one thing more, Norma! Annie asked me if I had any idea of who theman was--the man Wolf speaks of there in that note--and I had to saysomeone, just to quiet her. So I said that I thought it was RoyGillespie--you don't mind?--I knew he liked you tremendously, and Ihappened to think of him! Is that all right?"

She made no audible answer, almost immediately leaving him, and goingupstairs. There was nothing to do, in her room, and she knew that shecould really be of use downstairs, among the intimate old friends whowere protecting Annie and Leslie from annoyance, but she felt in no moodfor that. She hated herself and everybody; she was half-mad with fatigueand despondency. 

Oh, what was the use of living--what was the use of living! Chrisdespised her; that was quite plain. He had advised her to-night as hewould have advised an ignorant servant--an inexperienced commoner whomight make the family ridiculous--who might lose her head, and descendto "unnecessary pieces of vulgarity!" Leslie had always "made allowancesfor Norma"; Annie considered her an "outsider. " Wolf was going toCalifornia without her, and even Aunt Kate--even Aunt Kate had scoldedher, reminded her that the Melroses had always been kind to her!

Norma's tears flowed fast, there seemed to be no end to the flood. Shesopped them away with the black-bordered handkerchief, and tried walkingabout, and drinking cold water, but it was of no use. Her heart seemedbroken, there was no avenue for her thoughts that did not lead toloneliness and grief. They had all pretended to love her--but not one ofthem did--not one of them did! She had never had a father, and never hada mother, she had never had a fair chance!

Money--she thought darkly. But what was the use of money if everyonehated her, if everyone thought she was selfish and stupid and ignorantand superfluous! Why find a beautiful apartment, and buy beautifulclothes, if she must flatter and cajole her way into Annie's favour toenjoy them, and bear Chris's superior disdain for her stumbling literarycriticisms and her amateurish Italian?

And she was furious at Chris. How dared he--how dared he insult her bycoupling her name with that of Roy Gillespie, to quiet Annie and toprotect himself! She was a married woman; she had never given him anyreason to take such liberties with her dignity! Roy Gillespie, indeed!Annie was to amuse herself by fancying Norma secretly enamoured of thatbig, stupid, simple Gillespie boy, who was twenty-two years old, andhardly out of college! And it was for him that Norma was presumablyleaving her husband!

It was insufferable. It was insufferable. She would go straight toAnnie--but no, she couldn't do that. She couldn't tell Annie, on thenight before Annie's sister was buried, that that same sister's husbandloved and was beloved by another woman. 

"Still, it's true, " Norma mused, darkly. "Only we seem unable to speakthe truth in this house! Well, I'm stifling here----"

She had been leaning out of the open window, the night was soft andwarm. Norma looked at her wrist watch; it was nine o'clock. A sudden madimpulse took her: she would go over to Jersey, and see Rose. It was notso very late, the babies kept Rose and Harry up until almost eleven. Shethirsted suddenly for Rose, for Rose's beautiful, pure little face, herpuzzled, earnest blue eyes under black eyebrows, her pleasant, unreadywords that were always so true and so kind. 

Rapidly Norma buttoned the new black coat, dropped the filmy veil, fleddown the back stairway, and through a bright, hot pantry, where maidswere laughing and eating gaily. She explained to their horrified silencethat she was slipping out for a breath of air, went through doorwaysand gratings, and found herself in the blessed coolness and darkness ofthe side street. 

Ah--this was delicious! She belonged here, flying along inconspicuousand unmolested in light and darkness, just one of the hurrying andindifferent millions. The shop windows, the subways, the verygum-machines and the chestnut ovens with their blowing lamps lookedfriendly to Norma to-night; she loved every detail of blowing newspapersand yawning fellow-passengers, in the hot, bright tube. 

On the other side she was hurrying off the train with the plunging crowdwhen her heart jumped wildly at the sight of a familiar shabby overcoatsome fifty feet ahead of her, topped by the slightly tipped slouch hatthat Wolf always wore. Friday night! her thoughts flashed joyously, andhe was coming to New Jersey to see his mother and Rose! Of all fortunateaccidents--the one person in the world she wanted to see--and must seenow!

Norma fled after the coat, dodging and slipping through every opening, and keeping the rapidly moving slouch hat before her. She was quite outof breath when she came abreast of the man, and saw, with a sickeningrevulsion, that it was not Wolf. 

What the man thought Norma never knew or cared. The surprising blanknessof the disappointment made her almost dizzy; she turned aside blindly, and stumbled into the quiet backwater behind a stairway, where she couldrecover her self-possession and endure unobserved the first pangs ofbitterness. It seemed to her that she would die if she could not seeWolf, if she had to endure another minute of loneliness and darkness andaimless wandering through the night. 

Rose's house was only three well-lighted blocks from the station; Normaalmost ran them. Other houses, she noted, were still brightly lighted atquarter to eleven o'clock, and Rose's might be. Aunt Kate was there, andshe and Rose might well be sitting up, with the restless smaller baby, or to finish some bit of sewing. 

It was a double house, and the windows that matched Rose's bedroom anddining-room were lighted in the wrong half. But all Rose's side wasblack and dark and silent. 

Norma, for the first time in her life, needed courage for the knockingand ringing and explaining. If they would surely be kind to her, shemight chance it, she thought. But if Aunt Kate was angry with hervacillations in regard to Wolf, and if Rose had also taken Wolf's side, then she knew that she, Norma, would begin to cry, and disgrace herself, and have good-natured simple old Harry poking about and wondering whatwas the matter----

No, she didn't dare risk it. So she waited in the little garden, lookingup at the windows, praying that little Harry would wake up, or that thebaby's little acid wail would drift through the open window, and thenthe dim light bloom suddenly, and show a silhouette of Rose, tall andsweet in her wrapper, with a great rope of braid falling over oneshoulder. 

But moments went by, and there was no sound. Norma went to the streetlamp a hundred feet away and looked at her wrist watch. Quarter pasteleven; it was useless to wait any longer; it had been a senseless questfrom the beginning. 

She went back to the city by train and boat, crying desolately in thedarkness above the ploughing of the invisible waters. She cried withpity for herself, for it seemed to her that life was very unfair to her. 

"Is it _my_ fault that I inherit all that money?" she asked the darknight angrily. "Is it my fault that I love Chris Liggett? Isn't itbetter to be honest about it than live with a man I don't love? Isn'tthat the worst thing that woman can endure--a loveless marriage?

"But that's just the High School Debating Society!" she interruptedherself, suddenly, using a phrase that she and Wolf had coined long agofor glib argument that is untouched by actual knowledge of life. "Loveless marriage--and wife in name only! I wonder if I am getting tobe one of the women who throw those terms about as an excuse for justsheer selfishness and stupidity!"

And her aunt's phrases came back to her, making her wonder unhappilyjust where the trouble lay, just what sort of a woman she was. 

"I think you will be whatever you want to be, Norma, " Mrs. Sheridan hadsaid, "you're a woman now--you're Wolf's wife----"

But that was just what she did not feel herself, a woman and Wolf'swife. She was a girl--interested in shaggy sport coats and lacestockings; she did not want to be any one's wife! She wanted to punishLeslie and Aunt Annie, and to have plenty of money, and to have awonderful little apartment on the east side of the Park, and deliciousclothes; she wanted to become a well-known figure in New York society, at Palm Beach and the summer resorts, and at the opera and the bigdining-rooms of the hotels. 

"And I could do it, too!" Norma thought, walking through the cool, darknight restlessly. "In two years--in three or four, anyway, I would bewhere Aunt Annie is; or at least I would if Chris and I were married--hecould do anything! I suppose, " she added, with youthful recklessness, "Isuppose there are lots of old fogies who would never understand mygetting separated from Wolf, but it isn't as if _he_ didn't understand, for I know he does! Wolf has always known that it took just _certainthings_ to make me happy!"

Something petty, and contemptible, and unworthy, in this last argumentsmote her ears unpleasantly, and she was conscious of flushing in thedark. 

"Well, people have to be happy, don't they?" she reasoned, with a risinginflection at the end of the phrase that surprised and a trifledisquieted her. "Don't they?" she asked herself, thoughtfully, as shecrept in at the side door of the magnificent, cumbersome old house thatwas her own now. No one but an amazed-looking maid saw her, as sheregained her room, and fifteen minutes later she was circulating aboutthe dim and mournful upper floor again. Annie called her into her room. 

"You look fearfully tired, Norma! Do get some sleep, " her aunt said, with unusual kindness. "I'm going to try to, although my head is achingterribly, and I know I can't. To-morrow will be hard on us all. I shallgo home to-morrow night, and I'm trying to persuade Leslie to come withme. "

"No, I shan't! I'm going to stay here, " Leslie said, with a sort ofweary pettishness. "My house is closed, and poor Chris is going to beginclosing Aunt Alice's house, and he doesn't want to go to a club--he'dmuch rather be here, wouldn't he, Norma?"

Something in the tired way that both aunt and niece appealed to hertouched Norma, and she answered sympathetically:

"Truly, I think he would, Aunt Annie. And if little Patricia and thenurse get here on Sunday, she won't be lonely. "

"Norma, why don't you stay here, too--your husband's in Philadelphia, "Leslie asked her. "Do! We shall have so much to do----"

"We haven't seen the will, but I believe Judge Lee is going to bring iton Wednesday, " Annie said, "and Chris said that Mama left you--well, Idon't know what! I wish you could arrange to stay the rest of the week, at least!"

"I will!" Norma agreed. She had been feeling neglected and lonely, andthis unexpected friendliness was heartwarming. 

"You've been a real comfort, " Annie said, good-naturedly. "You're such asensible child, Norma. I hope one of these days--afterward"--and Anniefaintly indicated with her eyebrows the direction of the front room fromwhich the funeral procession would start to-morrow--"afterward, thatyou'll let us know your husband better. And now it's long past midnight, girls, and you ought to be in bed!"

It was mere casual civility on Annie's part, as accidental as had beenher casual unkindness a few hours before. But it lifted Norma's heart, and she went out into the hall in a softer frame of mind than she hadknown for a long time. She managed another word with Chris before goingto her room for almost nine hours of reviving and restoring sleep. 

"Chris, I feel terribly about breaking this news to Aunt Annie andLeslie while they feel so badly about Aunt Alice and Aunt Marianna!" shesaid. Again Chris gave the hallway, where she had met him, a quick, uneasy scrutiny before he answered her:

"Well, of course! But it can't be helped. "

"But do you think that we could put it off until Wednesday, Chris, whenthe will is to be read? Everyone will be here then, and it would seem agood time to do it!"

"Yes, " he consented, after a moment's thought, "I think that is a goodidea!" And so they left it. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

Regina roused Norma just in time for the long, wearisome ceremonials ofthe following day, a cold, bright gusty day, when the wet streetsflashed back sombre reflections of the motor wheels, and the newlyturned earth oozed flashing drops of water. The cortège left the oldMelrose house at ten minutes before ten o'clock, and it was four beforethe tired, headachy, cramped members of the immediate family groupregathered there, to discard the crape-smothered hats, and the odorous, sombre furs, and to talk quietly together as they sipped hot soup andcrumbled rolls. Everything had been changed, the flowers were gone, furniture was back in place, and the upper front room had been openedwidely to the suddenly spring-like afternoon. There was not a fallenviolet petal to remind her descendants that the old mistress of fortyfull years was gone for ever. 

Annie's boys came to bring Mother home, after so many strange days'absence, and Norma liked the way that Annie smiled wearily at Hendrick, and pressed her white face hungrily against the boys' blonde, firmlittle faces. Leslie, in an unwontedly tender mood, drew Acton's armabout her, as she sat in a big chair, and told him with watering eyesthat she would be glad to see old Patsie-baby on Sunday. Norma satalone, the carved Tudor oak rising high above her little tired head withits crushed soft hair, and Chris sat alone, too, at the other end ofthe table, and somehow, in the soul fatigue that was worse than anybodily fatigue, she did not want the distance between them bridged, shedid not want--she shuddered away from the word--love-making from Chrisagain!

Leslie, who felt quite ill with strain and sorrow, went upstairs to bed, the Von Behrens went away, and presently Acton disappeared, to telephoneold Doctor Murray that his wife would like a sedative--or a heartstimulant, or some other little attention as a recognition of her brokenstate. 

Then Chris and Norma were alone, and with a quiet dignity that surprisedhim she beckoned him to the chair next to her, and, leaning both elbowson the cloth, fixed him with her beautiful, tired eyes. 

"I want to talk to you, Chris, and this seems to be the time!" she said. "You'll be deep in all sorts of horrible things for weeks now, poor oldChris, and I want this said first! I've been thinking very seriously allthese days--they seem months--since Aunt Marianna died, and I've come tothe conclusion that I'm--well, I'm a fool!"

She said the last word so unexpectedly, with such obvious surprise, thatChris's tired, colourless face broke into something like a smile. He hadseated himself next to her, and was evidently bending upon her problemhis most earnest attention. 

"Some months ago, " Norma said in a low voice, "I thought--I_thought_--that I fell in love! The man was rich, and handsome, andclever, and he knew more--of certain things!--in his little finger, thanI shall ever know in my whole life. Not exactly more French, or more ofpolitics, or more persons--I don't mean quite that. But I mean aconglomerate sort of--I'm expressing myself badly, but you understand--aconglomerate total of all these things that make him an aristocrat!That's what he is, an aristocrat. Now, I'm not! I've found that out. I'mdifferent. "

"Nonsense!" Chris said, lightly, but listening patiently none the less. 

"I know, " Norma resumed, hammering her thought out slowly, and frowningdown at the teaspoon that she was measuring between her finger-tips, "Iknow that there are two women in me. One is the Melrose, who_could_--for I know I could!--push her husband out of sight, take up thewhole business of doing things correctly, from hair-dressing and writingnotes of condolence to being"--she could manage a hint of a smile underswiftly raised lashes--"being presented at Saint James's!" she said. "Infive years she would be an admired and correct and popular woman, andperhaps even married to this man I speak of! The other woman is mylittle plain French mother's sort--who was a servant--my Aunt Kate'skind, " and Norma suddenly felt the tears in her eyes, and winked themaway with an April smile, "who belongs to her husband, who likes to cookand tramp about in the woods, and send Christmas boxes to Rose's babies, and--and go to movies, and picnics! And that's the sort of woman I _am_, Chris, " Norma ended, with a sudden firmness, and even a certain reliefin her voice. "I've just discovered it! I've been spoiled all mylife--I've been loved too much, I think, but I've thought it all out--itreally came to me, as I stood beside Aunt Marianna's grave to-day, andyou don't know how happy it's made me!"

"You are talking very recklessly, Norma, " Chris said, as she paused, inhis quiet, definite voice. "You are over-excited now. There is no suchdifference in the two--the two classes, to call them that, as you fancy!The richer people, the people who, as you say, do things correctly, andare presented at Saint James's, have all the simple pleasures, too. Onelikes moving pictures now and then; I'm sure we often have picnics inthe summer. But there are women in New York--hundreds of them, who wouldgive the last twenty years of their lives to step into exactly what youcan take for the asking now. You will have Annie and me back ofyou--this isn't the time, Norma, for me to say just how entirely youwill have my championship! But surely you know----"

He was just what he had always been: self-possessed, finished, splendidly sure in voice and manner. He was rich, he was popular, he wasa dictator in his quiet way. And she knew even if the shock of hiswife's sudden going had pushed his thought of her into the background, that in a few months he would be hovering about her again, conventionally freed for conventional devotion. 

She saw all this, and for the first time to-day she saw other things, too. That he was forty, and looked it. That there was just the faintestsuggestion of thinning in his smooth hair, where Wolf's magnificent manewas the thickest. That it was just a little bloodless, this decorousmourning that had so instantly engulfed him, who had actually told her, another man's wife, a few weeks before, that his own wife was dying, andso would free him for the woman he loved at last!

In short, Norma mused, watching him as he fell into moody silence, hehad not scrupled to break the spirit of his bond to Alice, he had nothesitated to tell Norma that he loved her when only Norma, and possiblyAlice, might suffer from his disloyalty. But when the sacred letter wastouched, the sacred outside of the vessel that must be kept clean beforethe world, then Chris was instantly the impeccable, the irreproachableman of his caste again. It was all part of the superficial smallness ofthat world where arbitrary form ruled, where to send a weddinginvitation printed and not engraved, or to mispronounce the name of avisiting Italian tenor or Russian dancer, would mark the noblest womanin the world as hopelessly "not belonging. "

"One of the things you do that really you oughtn't to, Norma, " heresumed, presently, in quiet distaste, "is assume that there is somemysterious difference between, say, the Craigies, and well--yourhusband. The Craigies are enormously wealthy, of course. That means thatthey have always had fine service, music, travel, the best of everythingin educational ways, friendship with the best people--and those things_are_ an advantage, generation after generation. It's absurd to denythat Annie's children, for example, haven't any real and tremendousadvantages over--well, some child of a perfectly respectable family thatmanages nicely on ten thousand a year. But that Annie's pleasures arenot as real, or that there must necessarily be somethingdangerous--something detestable--in the life of the best people, isridiculous!"

"That's just what I do assert, " she answered, bravely. "It may not be sofor you, for you were born to it! But when you've lived, as I have, in adifferent sort of life, with people to whom meals, and the rent, andtheir jobs, really matter--this sort of thing doesn't seem _real_. Youfeel like bursting out laughing and saying, 'Oh, get out! What's thedifference if I _don't_ make calls, and broaden my vowels, and wear justthis and that, and say just this and that!' It all seems so _tame_. "

"Not at all, " Chris said, really roused. "Take Betty Doane, now, theCraigies' cousin. There's nothing conventional about her. There's a girlwho dresses like a man all summer, who ran away from school and trampedinto Hungary dressed as a gipsy, who slapped Joe Brinckerhoff's face forhim last winter, and who says that when she loves a man she's going offwith him--no matter who he is, or whether he's married or not, orwhether she is!"

"I'll tell you what she sounds like to me, Chris, a little saucy girl ofabout eight trying to see how naughty she can be! Why, that, " saidNorma, eagerly, "that's not _real_. That isn't like house-hunting whenyou know you can't pay more than thirty dollars' rent, or surprisingyour husband with a new thermos bottle that he didn't think he couldafford!"

"Ah, well, if you _like_ slums, of course!" Chris said, coldly. "Butnothing can prevent your inheriting an enormous sum of money, Norma, " hesaid, ending the conversation, "and in six months you'll feel verydifferently!"

"There is just one chance in ten--one chance in a hundred--that Imight!" she said to herself, going upstairs, after Chris and Acton, whopresently returned to the dining-room, had begun an undertonedconversation. And with a sudden flood of radiance and happiness at herheart, she sat down at her desk, and wrote to Wolf. 

The note said:

 WOLF DEAR:

 I have been thinking very seriously, during these serious days, and I am writing you more earnestly than I ever wrote any one in my life. I want you to forgive me all my foolishness, and let me come back to you. I have missed you so bitterly, and thought how good and how sensible you were, and how you took care of us all years ago, and gave Rose and me skates that Christmas that you didn't have your bicycle mended, and how we all sat up and cried the night Aunt Kate was sick, and you made us chocolate by the rule on the box. I have been very silly, and I thought I cared--and perhaps I _did_ care--for somebody else; or at least I cared for what he stood for, but I am over that now, and I feel so much older, and as if I needed you so. I shall have a tremendous lot of money, and we'll just have to decide what to do with it, but I think I know now that there won't be any particular pleasure in spending it. We'll always love the old car, and----But it just occurs to me that we _could_ send poor Kitty Barry to the hospital, and perhaps ship them all off somewhere where they'd get better. Aunt Kate would like that. But won't you come up, Wolf, and see me? I'll meet you anywhere, and we can talk, on Monday or Tuesday. Will you write me or wire me? I can't wait to see you!

She cried over the letter, and over the signature that she was hisloving Nono, but she mailed it with a dancing heart. The road had beendark and troubled for awhile, but it was all clear now! The wrong hadbeen--the whole wretched trouble had been--in her thinking that shecould toss aside the solemn oath that she had taken on the bewilderingday of her marriage almost a year ago. 

Never since old, old days of childhood, when she and Wolf and Rose hadwiped the dishes and raked the yard, and walked a mile to thetwenty-five-cent seats at the circus, had Norma been so sure ofherself, and so happy. She felt herself promoted, lifted above the oldfeelings and the old ways, and dedicated to the work before her. And oneby one the shadows lifted, and the illusions blew away, and she couldsee her way clear for the first time in more than three years. It wasall simple, all right, all just as she would have had it. She wouldnever be a petted and wealthy little Leslie, she would never be aleader, like Mrs. Von Behrens, and she would never stand before theworld as the woman chosen by the incomparable Chris. Yet she was thelast Melrose, and she knew now how she could prove herself the proudestof them all, how she could do these kinspeople of hers a greater favourthan any they had ever dreamed of doing her. And in the richness ofrenouncing Norma knew herself to be for the first time truly rich. 

Chris saw the difference in her next day, felt the new dignity, thesudden transition from girl to woman, but he had no inkling of itscause. Leslie saw it, and Annie, but Norma gave them no clue. Atluncheon Annie, who had joined them for the meal, proposed that Leslieand Norma and the Liggetts come to her for a quiet family dinner, butNorma begged off; she really must see Aunt Kate, and would seize thisopportunity to go home for a night. But leaving the table Norma askedChris if she might talk business to him for a few minutes. 

They sat in the old library, Chris sunk in a great leather chair, smoking cigarettes, Norma opposite, her white hands clasped on theblackness of her simple gown, and her eyes moving occasionally fromtheir quiet study of the fire to rest on Chris's face. 

"Chris, " she said, "I've thought this all out, now, and I'm not reallyasking your advice, I'm telling you what I am going to do! I'm going toCalifornia with Wolf in a week or two--that's the first thing!"

He stared at her blankly, and as the minutes of silence between themlengthened Norma noticed his lips compress themselves into a thin, colourless line. But she returned his look bravely, and in her eyesthere was something that told the man she was determined in herdecision. 

"I don't quite follow you, Norma, " he said at last with difficulty. "Youmean that all the plans and hopes we shared and discussed----" Hefaltered a moment and then made another effort: "Now that whateverobstacles there were have been removed, and you and I are free tofulfill our destinies, am I to understand that--that you are going backto your husband?"

"Exactly. " The girl's answer was firm and determined. 

The colour fled from Chris's face, and a cold light came into his eye;his jaw stiffened. 

"You must use your own judgment, Norma, " he answered, with a displeasedshrug. 

"I'll leave with you, or send you, my power of attorney, " the girl wenton, "and you and Hendrick as executors must do whatever you think rightand just--just deposit the money in the bank!"

"I see, " Chris said, noncommittally. 

"And there's another thing, " Norma went on, with heightened colour. "Idon't want either Leslie or Aunt Annie ever to know--what you and Iknow!"

Chris looked at her, frowning slightly. 

"That's impossible, of course, " he said. "What are they going to think?"

"They'll think nothing, " Norma said, confidently, but with anxious eyesfixed on his face, "because they'll know nothing. There'll be no change, nothing to make them suspect anything. "

"But--great God! You don't seem to understand, Norma. Proofs of yourbirth, of your rightful heritage, your identity, the fact that you areTheodore's child, must be shown them, of course. You have inherited byAunt Marianna's will the bulk of her personal fortune, but besides this, as Theodore's child, you inherit the Melrose estate, and Leslie mustturn this all over to you, and make such restitution as she is able, ofall income from it which she has received since Judge Lee and I turnedit over to her on her eighteenth birthday. "

"No, that's just what she is _not_ to do! I will get exactly what ismentioned in the will--as Norma Sheridan, bonds and the MelroseBuilding, and so on, " Norma broke in, eagerly. "And that's enough, goodness knows, and a thousand times more than Wolf and I ever expectedto have. Aunt Annie and Leslie are reconciled to that. But for the rest, I refuse to accept it. I don't want it. I've never been so unhappy in mylife as I've been in this house, for all the money and the good timesand the beautiful clothes. And if that much didn't make me happy, whyshould ten times more? Isn't it far, far better--all round----"

"You are talking absurdities, " said Chris. "Do you think that Hendrickand I could consent to this? Do you suppose----"

"Hendrick doesn't know it, Chris. It is only you and I and AuntKate--that's all! And if I do this, and swear you and Aunt Kate tosecrecy, who is responsible, except me?"

Chris shook his head. "Aunt Marianna wished you righted--wished you totake your place as Theodore's daughter. It is her wish, and it is onlyour duty----"

"But think a minute, Chris, think a minute, " Norma said, eagerly, leaning forward in her chair, so that her locked hands almost touchedhis knees. "_Was_ it her wish? She wanted me to _know_--that's certain!And I do know. But do you really think she wanted Leslie to be shamedand crushed, and to take away the money Leslie has had all her life, toshock Aunt Annie, and stir that old miserable matter up with Hendrick?Chris, you _can't_ think that! The one thing she would have wished andprayed would have been that somehow the matter would have been rightedwithout hurting any one. Chris, _think_ before you tear the whole familyup by the roots. What harm is there in this way? I have plenty ofmoney--and I go away. The others go on just as they always have, and ina little way--in just a hundredth part--I pay back dear old AuntMarianna for all the worrying and planning she did, to make up to me forwhat should have been mine, and was Leslie's. Please--_please_, help meto do this, Chris. I can't be happy any other way. Aunt Kate willapprove--you don't know how much she will approve, and it will repayher, too, just a little, to feel that it's all known now, and that ithas turned out this way. And she will destroy every last line and shredof letters and papers, and the photographs she said she had, and it willall be over--for ever and for ever!"

"You put a terrible responsibility upon me, " Chris said, slowly. 

"No--I take it myself!" Norma answered. He had gotten to his feet, andwas standing at the hearth, and now she rose, too, and looked eagerly upat him. "It isn't anything like the responsibility of facing the worldwith the whole horrible story!"

Chris was silent, thinking. Presently he turned upon her the old smilethat she had always found irresistible, and put his two hands on hershoulders. 

"You are a wonderful woman, Norma!" he said, slowly. "What woman in theworld, but you, would do that? Yes, I'll do it--for Leslie's sake, andActon's sake, and because I believe Alice would think it as wonderful inyou as I do. But think, " Chris said, "think just a few days, Norma. Youand I--you and I might go a long way, my dear!"

If he had said it even at this hour yesterday, he might have shaken her, for the voice was the voice of the old Chris, and she had been even thenpuzzled and confused to see the wisest way. But now everything waschanged; he could not reach her now, even when he put his arm about her, and said that this was one of their rare last chances to be alonetogether, and asked if it must be good-bye. 

She looked up at him gravely and unashamedly. 

"Yes, it must be good-bye--dear Chris!" she said, with a little emotion. "Although I hope we will see each other often, if ever Wolf and I comeback. Engineers live in Canada and Panama and India and Alaska, youknow, and we never will know we are coming until we get here! And I'mnot going to try to thank you, Chris, for what you did for an ignorant, silly, strange little girl; you've been a big brother to me all theselast years! And something more, of course, " Norma added, bravely, "andI won't say--I can't say--that if it hadn't been for Wolf, and all thechanges this year--changes in me, too--I wouldn't have loved you all mylife. But there's no place that you could take me, as Wolf Sheridan'sdivorced wife, that would seem worth while to me, when I got there--notif it was in the peerage!"

"There's just one thing that I want to say, too, Norma, " Chris said, suddenly, when she had finished. "I'm not good enough for you; I knowit. I see myself as I am, sometimes, I suppose. I think you're going tobe happy--and God knows I hope so; perhaps it _is_ a realer life, yourhusband's: and perhaps a man who works for his wife with his hands andhis head has got something on us other fellows after all! I've oftenwished----But that doesn't matter now. But I want you to know I'llalways remember you as the finest woman I ever knew--just the best thereis! And if ever I've hurt you, forgive me, won't you, Norma?--and--andlet me kiss you good-bye!"

She raised her face to his confidently, and her eyes were misty when shewent upstairs, because she had seen that his were wet. But there was nomore unhappiness; indeed an overwhelming sense that everything wasright--that every life had shifted back into normal and manageable andinfinitely better lines, went with her as she walked slowly out into thesunshine, and wandered in the general direction of Aunt Kate's. As sheleft the old Melrose home, the big limousine was standing at the door, and presently Annie and Leslie would sweep out in their flowing veilsand crapes, and whirl off to the Von Behrens mansion. But Norma Sheridanwas content to walk to the omnibus, and to take the jolting front seat, and to look down in all brotherly love and companionship at the movingand shifting crowds that were glorying in the warm spring weather. 

To be busy--to be needed--to be loved--she said to herself. That was thesweet of life, and it could not be taken from the policeman at thecrossing or the humblest little shop-girl who scampered under his bigarm, or bought by the bored women in limousines who, furred and floweredand feathered, were moving from the matinée to the tea table. CarolineCraigie, Aunt Annie, Leslie; she had seen the material advantages oflife fail them all. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Aunt Kate was out when Norma reached the apartment, but she knew thatthe key was always on the top of the door frame, and entered thefamiliar old rooms without any trouble. But she saw in a dismayed flashthat Aunt Kate was not coming back, for that night at least. The kitchenwindow had been left four inches open, to accommodate the cat, milk andbones were laid in waiting, and a note in the bottle notified themilkman "no milk until to-morrow. " There was also a note in pencil, onthe bottom of an egg-box, for the nurses who rented two rooms, shouldeither one of them chance to come in and be hungry, she was to eat "thepudding and the chicken stew, and get herself a good supper. "

Norma, chuckling a little, got herself the good supper instead. It waswith a delightful sense of solitude and irresponsibility that she sateating it, at the only window in the flat that possessed a good view, the kitchen window. Aunt Kate, she decided, was with Rose, who had notelephone; Norma thought that she would wait until Aunt Kate got homethe next day, rather than chance the long trip to the Oranges again. Analternative would have been to go to Aunt Annie's house, but somehow thethought of the big, silent handsome place, with the men in evening wear, Aunt Annie and Leslie in just the correct mourning décolleté, and theconversation decorously funereal, did not appeal to her. Instead itseemed a real adventure to dine alone, and after dinner to put on aless conspicuous hat and coat, and slip out into the streets, and walkabout in her new-found freedom. 

The night was soft and balmy, and the sidewalks filled with saunteringgroups enjoying the first delicious promise of summer as much as Normadid. The winter had been long and cold and snowy; great masses ofthawing ice from far-away rivers were slowly drifting down thestar-lighted surface of the Hudson, and the trees were still bare. Butthe air was warm, and the breezes lifted and stirred the tender darknessabove her head with a summery sweetness. 

Norma loved all the world to-night; the work-tired world that wasrevelling in idleness and fresh air. Romance seemed all about her, thedoorways into which children reluctantly vanished, the gossiping womencoming back from bakery or market, the candy stores flooded with light, and crowded with young people who were having the brightest and mostthrilling moments of all their lives over banana specials and chocolatesundaes. The usual whirlpools eddied about the subway openings andmoving-picture houses, the usual lovers locked arms, in the high rockingdarkness of the omnibus tops, and looked down in apathetic indifferenceupon the disappointment of other lovers at the crossings. In the brightwindows of dairy restaurants grapefruit were piled, and big baked applesranged in saucers, and beyond there were hungry men leaning far over thetable while they discussed doughnuts and strong coffee, and shook openevening papers. 

She and Wolf had studied it all for years; it was sordid and crowded andcheap, perhaps, but it was honest and happy, too, and it was real. Therewas no affectation here, even the premature spring hats, and the rouge, and the high heels were an ingenuous bid for just a little notice, justa little admiration, just a little longer youth. 

Sauntering along in the very heart of it, hearing the flirtation, thetheatrical chatter, the homely gossip about her, Norma knew that she wasat home. Leslie, perhaps, might have loathed it had she been put down inthe midst of it; to Aunt Annie it would always seem entirely beneatheven contempt. But Norma realized to-night, as she slipped into churchfor a few minutes, as she dropped a coin into a beggar's tin cup, as sheentered into casual conversation with the angry mother of a defiant boy, that this, to her, was life. It was life--to work, to plan, to marry andbear children, to wrest her own home from unfavourable conditions, andhelp her own man to win. She would live, because she would care--caredeeply how Wolf fared in his work, how her house prospered, how herchildren developed. She would not be Aunt Annie's sort of woman--Chris'ssort--she would be herself, judged not by what she had, but by what shecould do--what she could give. 

"And that's the kind of woman I am, after all, " she said to herself, rejoicingly. "The child of a French maid and a spoiled, rich young man!But no, I'm not their child. I'm Aunt Kate's--just as much as Rose andWolf are----!" And at the thought of Wolf she smiled. "Won't WolfSheridan _open his eyes_?"

When she reached Forty-first Street she turned east, and went past thefamiliar door of the opera house. It was a special performance, and thewaiting line stretched from the box office down the street, and aroundthe corner, into the dark. They would only be able to buy standingroom, these patient happy music lovers who grew weary and cold waitingfor their treat, and even standing, they would be behind an immovablecrowd, they would catch only occasional glimpses of the stage. But Normatold herself that she would rather be in that line, than yawninglydeciding, as she had so often seen Annie decide, that she would perhapsrustle into the box at ten o'clock for the third act--although it wasrather a bore. 

She flitted near enough to see the general stir, and to see once morethe sign "No Footmen Allowed in This Lobby, " and then, smiling at theold memories, she slipped away into the darkness, drinking in insatiablythe intimate friendliness of the big city and the spring night. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

It was ten o'clock the next day, a silent gray day, when Aunt Kate letherself into the apartment, and "let out, " to use her own phrase, astartled exclamation at finding her young daughter-in-law deeply asleepin her bed. Norma, a vision of cloudy dark tumbled hair and beautifulsleepy blue eyes, half-strangled the older woman in a rapturous embrace, and explained that she had come home the night before, and eaten thechicken stew, and perhaps overslept--at any rate would love some coffee. 

Something faintly shadowed in her aunt's welcome, however, wasimmediately apparent, and Norma asked, with a trace of anxiety, ifRose's babies were well. For answer her aunt merely asked if Wolf hadtelephoned. 

"Wolf!" said Wolf's wife. "Is he home?"

"My dear, " Mrs. Sheridan said. "He's going--he's gone!--to California!"

Norma did not move. But the colour went out of her face, and thebrightness from her eyes. 

"Gone!" she whispered. 

"Well--he goes to-day! At six o'clock----"

"At six o'clock!" Norma leaped from her bed, stood with clenched handsand wild eyes, thinking, in the middle of the floor. "It's twenty-twominutes past ten, " she breathed. "Where does he leave?"

"Rose and I were to see him at the Grand Central at quarter past five, "his mother began, catching the contagious excitement. "But, darling, Idon't know where you can get him before that!--Here, let me do that, "she added, for Norma had dashed into the kitchen, and was measuringcoffee recklessly. A brown stream trickled to the floor. 

"Oh, Lord--Lord--help me to get hold of him somewhere!" she heard Normabreathe. "And you weren't going to let me know--but it's my fault, " shesaid, putting her hands over her face, and rocking to and fro indesperate suspense. "Oh, how can I get him?--I must! Oh, AuntKate--_help me_! Oh, I'm not even dressed--and that clock says half-pastten! Aunt Kate, will you help me!"

"Norma, my darling, " her aunt said, arresting the whirling little figurewith a big arm, and looking down at her with all the love and sadness ofher great heart in her face, "why do you want to see him, dear? He toldme--he had to tell his mother, poor boy, for his heart is broken--thatyou were not going with him!"

"Oh, but Aunt Kate--he'll have to wait for me!" Norma said, stamping aslippered foot, and beginning to cry with hurt and helplessness. "Oh, won't you help me? You always help me! Don't--don't mind what I said toWolf; you know how silly I am! But please--_please_----"

"But, Baby--you're sure?" Mrs. Sheridan asked, feeling as if ice thathad been packed about her heart for days was breaking and stirring, andas if the exquisite pain of it would kill her. "Don't--hurt him again, Norma!"

"But he's going off--without me, " Norma wailed, rushing to the bathroom, and pinning her magnificent mass of soft dark hair into a stern knob forher bath. "Aunt Kate, I've always loved Wolf, always!" she said, passionately. "And if he really had gone away without me I think itwould have broken my heart! You _know_ how I love him! We'll catch himsomewhere, I know we will! We'll telephone--or else Harry----"

She trailed into the kitchen half-dressed, ten minutes later. 

"I've telephoned for a taxi, Aunt Kate, and we'll find him somewhere, "she said, gulping hot coffee appreciatively. "I must--I've something totell him. But I'll have to tell you everything in the cab. To beginwith--it's all over. I'm done with the Melroses. I appreciate all theydid for me, and I appreciate your worrying and planning about that oldsecret. But I've made up my mind. Whatever you have of letters, andpapers and proofs, I want you please to do the family a last favour byburning--every last shred. I've told Chris, I won't touch a cent of themoney, except what Aunt Marianna left me; and I never, never, neverintend to say one more word on the subject! Thousands didn't make mehappy, so why should a million? The best thing my father ever did for mewas to give my mother a chance to bring me here to you!"

She had gotten into her aunt's lap as she spoke, and was rubbing hercheek against the older, roughened cheek, and punctuating herconversation with little kisses. Mrs. Sheridan looked at her, andblinked, and seemed to find nothing to say. 

"Perhaps some day when it's hot--and the jelly doesn't jell--and thechildren break the fence, " pursued Norma, "I will be sorry! I haven'tmuch sense, and I may feel that I've been a fool. But then I just wantyou to remind me of Leslie--and the Craigies--or better, of what a beastI am myself in that atmosphere! So it's all over, Aunt Kate, and ifWolf will forgive me--and he always does----"

"He's bitterly hurt this time, Nono, " said her aunt, gently. 

Norma looked a little anxious. 

"I wrote him in Philadelphia, " she said, "but he won't get that letter. Oh, Aunt Kate--if we don't find him! But we will--if I have to walk upto him in the station the last minute--and stop him----"

"Ah, Norma, you love him!" his mother said, in a great burst ofthankfulness. "And may God be thanked for all His goodness! That's all Icare about--that you love him, and that you two will be together again. We'll get hold of him, dear, somehow----!"

"But, my darling, " she added, coming presently to the bedroom door tosee the dashing little feathered hat go on, and the dotted veil pinnedwith exquisite nicety over Norma's glowing face, and the belted browncoat and loose brown fur rapidly assumed, "you're not wearing yourmourning!"

"Not to-day, " Norma said, abstractedly. And aloud she read a list:

"Bank; Grand Central; drawing-room; new suit-case; notary for power ofattorney; Kitty Barry; telephone Chris, Leslie, Annie; telephone Reginaabout trunks. Can we be back here at say--four, Aunt Kate?"

"But what's all that for?" her aunt asked, dazedly. 

Norma looked at a check book; put it in her coat pocket. Then as heraunt's question reached her preoccupied mind, she turned toward her witha puzzled expression. 

"Why, Aunt Kate--you don't seem to understand; I'm going with Wolf toCalifornia this evening. "

CHAPTER XXXVII

It was exactly nineteen minutes past five o'clock when Wolf Sheridanwalked into the Grand Central Station that afternoon. He had stoppedoutside to send his wife some flowers, and just a brief line offarewell, and he was thinking so hard of Norma that it seemed naturalthat the woman who was coming toward him, in the great centralconcourse, should suggest her. The woman was pretty, too, and wore thesort of dashing little hat that Norma often wore, and there wassomething so familiar about the belted brown coat and the soft brownfurs that Wolf's heart gave a great plunge, and began toache--ache--ache--hopelessly again. 

The brown coat came nearer--and nearer. And then he saw that the wearerwas indeed his wife. She had dewy violets in her belt, and her violeteyes were dewy, too, and her face paled suddenly as she put her hand onhis arm. 

What Norma all that tired and panicky afternoon had planned to say toWolf on this occasion was something like this:

"Wolf, if you ever loved me, and if I ever did anything that made youhappy, and if all these years when I have been your little sister, andyour chum, and your wife, mean anything to you--don't push me away now!I am sorrier for my foolishness, and more ashamed of it, than you canpossibly be! I think it was never anything but weakness and vanity thatmade me want to flirt with Chris Liggett. I think that if he had oncestopped flattering me, and if ever our meetings had been anything butstolen fruit, as it were, I would have seen how utterly blind I was! I'mdifferent now, Wolf; I know that what I felt for him was only shallowvanity, and that what I feel for you is the deepest and realest lovethat any woman ever knew! There's nothing--no minute of the day or nightwhen I don't need you. There's nothing that you think that isn't what Ithink! I want to go West with you, and make a home there, and when yougo to China, or go to India, I want you to go because your wife hashelped you--because you have had happy years of working andexperimenting and picnicking and planning--with me!

"It's all over, Wolf, that Melrose business--that dream! I've saidgood-bye to them, and they have to me, and they know I'm never comingback! I'm a Sheridan now--really and truly--for ever. "

And in the lonesome and bitter days in which his great dream had cometrue, without Norma to share it, days in which he had been thinking ofher as affiliated more and more with the element he despised, identifiedmore and more with the man who had wrecked--or tried to wreck--her life, Wolf had imagined this meeting, and imagined her as tentatively holdingout the olive branch of peace; and he had had time to formulate exactlywhat he should answer to such an appeal. 

"I'm sorry, Norma, " he had imagined himself saying. "I'm terribly sorry!But just talking doesn't undo these things, just _saying_ that youdidn't mean it, and that it's all over. No, married life can't be pickedup and put down again like a coat. You _were_ my wife, and God knows Iworshipped you--heart and soul! If some day these people get tired ofyou, or you get tired of them, that'll be different! But you've cut metoo deep--you've killed a part of me, and it won't come alive again!I've been through hell--wondering what you were doing, what you weregoing to do! I never should have married you; now let's call it allquits, and get out of it the best way we can!"

But when he saw her, the familiar, lovely face that he had loved for somany years, when he felt the little gloved hand on his arm, and realizedthat somehow, out of the utter desolation and loneliness of the bigcity, she had come to him again, that she was here, mistily smiling athim, and he could touch her and hear her voice, everything elsevanished, as if it had never been, and he put his big arm about herhungrily, and kissed her, and they were both in tears. 

"Oh, Wolf----!" Norma faltered, the dry spaces of her soul flooding withspringtime warmth and greenness, and a great happiness sweeping away allconsciousness of the place in which they stood, and the interested eyesabout them. "Oh, Wolf----!" She thought that she added, "Would you havegone away without me!" but as a matter of fact words were not needednow. 

"Nono--you _do_ love me?" he whispered. Or perhaps he only thought heenunciated the phrase, for although Norma answered, it was not audibly. Neither of them ever remembered anything coherent of that first fiveminutes, in which momentous questions were settled between Norma'sadmiring comment upon Wolf's new coat, and in which they laughed andcried and clung together in shameless indifference to the generalpublic. 

But presently they were calm enough to talk, and Wolf's firstconstructive remark, not even now very steady or clear, was that he mustput off his going, get hold of Voorhies somehow----

But no, Norma said, even while they were dashing toward the telegraphoffice. She had already bought her ticket; she was going, too--to-night--this very hour----!

Wolf brought her up short, ecstatic bewilderment in his face. 

"But your trunks----?"

"Regina--I tell you it's all settled--Regina sends them on after me. AndI've got a new big suit-case, and my old brown one, that's plenty forthe present! They're checked here, in the parcel-room----"

"But we'll----" They had started automatically to rush toward theparcel-room, but now he brought her up short again. "It's five-thirtynow, " he muttered, turning briskly in still another direction, "let mehave your ticket, we'll have to try for a section--it's pretty late, butthere may be cancellations!"

"Oh, but see, Wolf----! I've been here since half-past four. I've gotthe A drawing-room in Car 131----" She brought forth an official-lookingenvelope, and flashed a flimsy bit of coloured paper. For a third timeWolf checked his hurried rushing, and they both broke into deliciouslaughter. "I've been at it all day, with Aunt Kate, " Norma said, proudly. "I've been to banks and to Judge Lee's office, and I've seenAnnie and Leslie, and I bought a new wrapper and a suit-case, and--oh, and I saw Kitty Barry, and I got you a book for the train, and I gotmyself one----"

"Oh, Norma, " Wolf said, his eyes filling, "you God-blessèd littleadorable idiot, do you know how I love you? My darling--my own wife, doyou know that I want to die, to-night, I'm so happy! Do you realize whatit's going to mean to us, poking about Chicago, and sending home littlepresents to Rose and the kids, and reaching San Francisco, and going upto the big mine? Do you realize that I feel like a man out of jail--likea kid who knows it's Saturday morning?"

"Well--I feel that way, too!" Norma smiled. "And now, " she added, in abusinesslike tone, "we've got to look for Aunt Kate and Rose, and getour bags; and Leslie said to-day that it was a good idea to wire aChicago hotel for a room, just for the few hours before the Overlandpulls out, because one feels so dirty and tired; do you realize thatI've never spent a night on a Pullman yet?"

"And I'll turn in the ticket for my lower, " Wolf said; "we'll havedinner on board, so that's all right----"

"Oh, Wolf, and won't that be fun?" Norma exulted. And then, joyously:"Oh, there they are!"

And she fled across the great space to meet Rose, pretty and matronly, at the foot of the great stairway, and Harry grinning and proud, withhis little sturdy white-caped boy in his arms, and Aunt Kate beamingutter happiness upon them all. And then ensued that thrilling time ofincoherencies and confusions, laughter and tears, to which the big placeis, by nature, dedicated. They were parting so lightly, but they allknew that there would be changes before they six met again. To AuntKate, holding close the child whose destinies had been so strangelyentangled with her own, the moment held a poignant pleasure as well aspain. She was launched now, their imperious, beloved youngest; she hadbeen taken to the mountain-tops, and shown the world at her feet, andshe had chosen bravely and wisely, chosen her part of service andsimplicity and love. Life would go on, changes indeed and growtheverywhere, but she knew that the years would bring her back a newNorma--a developed, sweetened, self-reliant woman--and a new Wolf, hishard childhood all swept away and forgotten in the richness and beautyof this woman's love and companionship. And she was content. 

"And, Wolf--she told you about Kitty! Every month, as long as they needit, " Rose said, crying heartily, as she clung to her brother. "Why, it'sthe most wonderful thing I ever heard! Poor Louis Barry can't believeit--he broke down completely! And Kitty was crying, and kissing thechildren, and she knelt down, and put her arms about Norma's knees; andNorma was crying, too--you never saw anything like it!"

"She never told me a word about it, " Wolf said, trying to laugh, andblinking, as he looked at her, a few feet away. One of her arms wasabout his mother, her hand was in Harry's, her face close to the rosybaby's face. 

"Wolf, " his sister said, earnestly, drying her eyes, "it will bring ablessing on your own children----!"

"Ah, Rose!" he answered, quickly. "Pray that there is one, some day--oneof our own as sweet as yours are!"

"Ah, you'll have everything, you two, never fear!" she said, radiantly. And then a gate opened, and the bustle about them thickened, andlaughing faces grew pale, and last words faltered. 

Harry gave Rose the baby, and put his arm about Rose's mother, and theywatched them go, the red-cap leading with the suit-cases, Wolf carryinganother, Norma on his arm, twisting herself about, at the very lastsecond, to smile an April smile over her shoulder, and wave the greenjade handle of her slim little umbrella. There was just a glimpse ofWolf's old boyish, proud, protecting smile, and then his head droopedtoward his companion, and the surging crowd shut them out of sight. 

Then Rose immediately was concerned for the little baby. Wouldn't it bewiser to go straight home, just for fear that Mrs. Noon might havefallen asleep--and the house caught on fire----? Mrs. Sheridan blew hernose and dried her eyes, and straightened her widow's bonnet, andcleared her throat, and agreed that it would. And they all went away. 

But there was another watcher who had shared, unseen, all this lasthalf-hour, and who stood immovable to the last second, until the irongates had actually clashed shut. It was a well-built, keen-eyed man, inan irreproachably fitting fur-collared overcoat, who finally turnedaway, fitting his eyeglasses, on their black ribbon, firmly upon thebridge of his nose, and sighing just a little as he went back to thesidewalk, and climbed into a waiting roadster. 

Even after he took his seat at the wheel, he made no effort to start thecar, but sat slowly drawing on his heavy gloves, and staringabstractedly at the dull, uninteresting stretch of street before him, where a dismal spring wind was stirring chaff and papers about thesubway entrance, and surface cars were grinding and ringing on thecurve. 

It looked dull and empty--dull and empty, he thought. She had been veryhappy, looking up at her man, kissing her people good-bye. She was aremarkable woman, Norma. 

"A remarkable woman--Norma, " he said, half-aloud. "She will make him awonderful wife; she will help him to go a long way. And she never wouldhave had patience for formal living; it wasn't in her!"

But he remembered what was in her, what eager gaiety, what hunger fornew impressions, what courage in seizing her dilemmas the instant shesaw them. He remembered the flash of her eyes, and the curve of herproud little mouth. 

"Theodore had more charm than any of them, " he said, "and she is likehim. Well--perhaps I'll meet somebody like her, some day, and the storywill have a different ending!"

But he knew in his heart that there was nobody like her, and that shehad gone out of his life for ever. 

 * * * * *

They had hung the belted brown coat over the big new gray one in thedrawing-room, and Norma had brushed her hair, and Wolf had shoved thesuit-cases under the seats, and they had gone straight into thedining-car, and were at a lighted little shining table by this time. Wolf had had no lunch; Norma was, she said, starving. They ordered theirmeal just as the train drew out of the underground arcades and sweptover the city, in the twilight of the dull, sunless day. 

Norma looked down, and joy and a vague heartache struggled within her. The little city blocks, draped with their frail tangles of fire-escapes, were as clean-cut as toys. In the streets children were screaming andracing, at the doorways women loitered and talked. Great trucks lumberedin and out among surging pedestrians, and women and children stoodbefore the green-grocers' displays of oranges and cabbages, and trickledin and out of the markets, where cheap cuts were advertised in greatchalk signs on the windows. Red brick, yellow brick, gray cement, thestreets fled by; the dear, familiar streets that she and Wolf, and sheand Rose, had tramped and explored, in the burning dry heat of July, inthe flutter of November's first snows. 

"Say good-bye to it, Wolf; it will be a long time before we see New Yorkagain!"

Wolf looked down, grinning. Then, as they left the city, and the duskdeepened, his eyes went toward the river, went toward the vague andwaiting West. The Palisades lay, a wide bar of soft dull gray, againstthe paler dove-colour of the sky. Above them, bare trees were etchedsharply, and beneath them was the satiny surface of the full Hudson. 

It was still water, and the river was smooth enough to give back a clearreflection of the buildings and the wharves on the opposite shore, andthe floating ice from the north looked like rounded bunches of foamarrested on the shining waters. 

Suddenly the sinking sun evaded the smother of cloud, and flashed outred and shining, for only a few brilliant minutes. It caught windowglass like flame, twinkled and smouldered in the mirror of the river, and lighted the under edges of low clouds with a crisp touch of apricotand pink. Wet streets shone joyously, doves rose in a circling whirlfrom a near-by roof, and all the world shone and sparkled in the lastbreath of the spring day. Then dusk came indeed, and the villagesacross the river were strung with increasing lights, and in the tenderopal softness of the evening sky Norma saw a great star hanging. 

"That's a good omen--that's our own little star!" she said softly toherself. She looked up to see Wolf smiling at her, and the smile in herown eyes deepened, and she stretched a warm and comradely hand to himacross the little table. 

THE END