"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 be released 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 older woman said, tenderly. But Norma did not brighten. She went in a businesslike way to the stove, and glanced at the various bowls and saucepans in which dinner was baking and boiling, then sliced some stale bread neatly, put the shaved crusts in a special jar, and began to toast the 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 coat and rubber overshoes and woolly scarf again. "November's coming in with a storm," she predicted, glancing out at the darkness, where the wind was rushing and howling drearily.