She rises with an impatient sigh and walks up and down the room, trying to crush out the bitter pain of loss--the envy and rebellion that _will_ arise within her as she thinks of Helen Thorndyke the wife of Richard Gilbert.

For it has come to this--that society begins to whisper Helen will speedily doff the weeds of widowhood for the pale flowing robes of the bride.

It is the second May following Laurence Thorndyke's tragic death, one year and seven months have passed, and the most despairing of widows will not despair forever. For the last half-year, in a quiet way, Helen has been going out a good deal, and is very much admired. And yet no wife had ever grieved more deeply, passionately and truly than Helen Thorndyke in the first dark months following her husband's death.

Remorse had added poignancy to her natural grief and horror of his dreadful end, and she had suffered how greatly, only Helen herself will ever know. But that is nearly two years ago, and Helen is but four-and-twenty, and

"Time, that blunts the edge of things, Dries our tears and spoils our bliss."

Time had brought its balm to her, and she could eat, drink and be merry once more. A great peace has followed that tragic time, friends surround her, and foremost and warmest among them, Richard Gilbert.

In the little cottage, presented her by Norine, where Helen and her little ones dwelt, the lawyer was a very frequent visitor. When Mrs.

Thorndyke's doors closed to all others they opened to him. And there Mrs. Darcy, a daily comer, met him at least two or three times each week. It had been her wish, after Laurence Thorndyke's death, that the stricken young widow should still make her home in her house, but this Helen had refused. She wanted to be alone, to hide herself somewhere away from all eyes, and Norine had understood the feeling, and gifted her with the pretty, vine-covered cottage outside the city's noise and turmoil. There, with her babies, Helen dragged through those first miserable months, and lived down her first bitter agony of remorseful despair.

When the summer, with its fierce, beating sunshine came they left the city's scorched streets and sun-bleached parks, for the cool breezes and country sweetness of Kent Hill. Thither Richard Gilbert, by invitation, followed. The close intimacy between him and Helen never waned. The children clung to him, and crowed with delight at his coming. He seemed never to weary of their small society. Was it altogether for all their own, or a little for their mother's sake, Norine wondered, feeling her first sharp, jealous pangs. He spent a month with them, then went back.

And when September, cool and delicious, came refreshingly to New York, the two handsome young widows, with the two little children, followed.

In society that winter, Mrs. Liston-Darcy, the millionaire's heiress, was admired enormously. Not alone, for her bank stock; for her own bonnie black eyes and rare piquant loveliness. Many men bowed down before her, younger, handsomer, more famous men than Richard Gilbert, but her answer was to one and all the same. None of these men touched her heart, to none of them was she inclined to tell the story of her own dark past. It was a bond between herself, and Helen, and Mr. Gilbert. In spite of herself she had learned to love him, to know him, to value him.

She turned her wistful eyes to his face, but those dark, lustrous looks had fooled him once--he was not the man to make himself any woman's puppet, and dance as she pulled the strings. He saw nothing but that she was rich, far beyond all riches of his, more beautiful with every passing year, surrounded by young and handsome men, ready to marry her at any moment. She had flung him off, unable to love him years ago. Was it likely that old, and gray, and grim, she could care for him now? He laughed, in a dreary sort of mockery, at the bare thought. Love and marriage had gone out of his life forever; he must be content with Helen's trust and friendship, until some more favored man bore her off, too, with her children; until they also outgrew childish loves. That the world coupled his name with hers, in _that_ way, he absolutely never dreamed.

Another May had come, and Norine, wearied of it all, and full of nameless restlessness, took a sudden resolution. She would go abroad. In travel she would find change and peace, and when Helen became his wife she, at least, would not be here to see it.

As she walked up and down, deep in her own somber thoughts, the boudoir door opened, and Helen herself came in--she was passing these last days with her friend--came in looking tall and stately, and very fair in her trailing black dress, and most becoming widow's cap.

"Mr. Gilbert has come, Nory," she says. "Will you go down or shall he come up?"

A lovely rose pink flushes into Norine's face. She keeps it averted from Helen as she replies:

"It doesn't matter, does it?" with elaborate carelessness; "he may as well come up. I wish to speak to him on legal business. Susan, you may go for the present."

So Susan goes, and Mrs. Thorndyke returns to the drawing-room and tells Mr. Gilbert, Norine will see him up-stairs. He goes up stairs, and appears presently before the mistress of the house, rather paler than usual if she did but notice it.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gilbert," she says, coming forward with outstretched hand and a smile. "I heard from Liston you had returned to town, and sent for you at once. I hope you enjoyed your trip to Baltimore?"

"As much as one usually enjoys a flying visit, forced upon one at a most inopportune time. I went to make a will. What is this Nellie tells me?

You are going to Europe?"

"Going to Europe. I am a restless, dissatisfied sort of mortal, I begin to think--never so happy as when on the wing. Mr. Darcy's death cut short my continental tour before; I shall make a prolonged one this time."

He was very grave and pale; even she noted the pallor now.

"You are looking ill," she said, drawing closer to him; "there is nothing the matter, I hope?"

"Nothing, thank you. How long do you propose remaining away?"

"Three years at the least."

There was a moment's silence. Norine broke it.

"You said just now your trip to Baltimore was to make a will. I sent for you this morning on that same errand; I am going to make my will."

He lifted his eyes and looked at her.

"Your will!" he repeated.

"My will. No, don't look anxious, dear friend; I don't think I am going to die. Only, when one intends to spend three years upon steamers and express trains, one may as well be on the safe side. If anything should happen, it is well to be able to give an account of one's stewardship. I want to provide for Helen and the children. Helen may not need any help of mine"--the steady, sweet tones shook a little--"but it belongs of right to the children. Once it was to have been all their father's. I shall only be giving them back what is rightly theirs. I wish to leave all I have to them. To-morrow, Mr. Gilbert, if you are not busy, I will go to your office and make my will."

Then there was a long, strange pause. In her own room adjoining, Helen Thorndyke sang softly as she moved about. The sweet, soft words came clearly to them as they stood there:

"Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in.

Time, you thief! who loved to get Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me.

Say I'm growing old, but add-- Jenny kissed me!"

Mr. Gilbert was the first to break the spell of silence.

"You are quite right," he said. "It can do no harm, only--it will be trouble taken for nothing. You will pass unscathed the fiery ordeal of steamers and express trains, and," with a smile, "one day you will marry again and make to-morrow's legal work null and void."

"I will never marry."

She said it gravely, and a little coldly. He was watching her--her eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the fire.

"Never marry?" he echoed, still smiling. "What will the honorable member from Ohio say to that?"

"You allude to Mr. More, I suppose," she said, still coldly. "I am aware gossip has coupled our names, and gossip is about as correct in this instance as it usually is."

"You are not engaged to him, then!"

"I am engaged to no one. I care nothing for Mr. More, in the way you mean. Even if I did, I still would not dream of marrying him."

"And why not?"

"Why not? You ask me that--you who know the cruel, shameful story of my past, the story I should have to tell."

"You were far more sinned against than sinning, and you have atoned."

She looked up suddenly--a swift flash of light in her eyes.

"Mr. Gilbert! _You_ say that! If I could only think so, only hope I had atoned!"

"You have indeed. I say it with all my heart. Your revenge has been a noble one. You have blest and brightened the life of Helen and her children. For him--he wrought his doom with his own hand! You have atoned."

"To Helen and her children--perhaps yes," she said, her voice broken and low; "but the greatest wrong of all was not done to them. Years ago I sinned against you, beyond all forgiveness. The remorse of my life is for that. You did me so much honor, you trusted me so entirely, and I--ah! what a wretch I must have been in your eyes, what a wretch I must be still."

He arose to his feet, moved beyond all power of silence now.

"Must be still," he repeated. "Norine! _why_ do you make me say this? I love and honor you beyond all women."

She gave a low cry, and stood with her hands clasped together.