"Don't mind me, please," she said; "don't talk to me. I am ashamed of my own weakness, but—"
Norine kissed her very tenderly.
"I am glad to see you cry, Nellie—anything is better than this dry, stony grief. I will take the babies down to supper, and send you up yours. And Nellie, dear, you must eat it; remember we start on a journey to-morrow."
The journey was to Kent Hill, where they were to stay over Christmas and New Year. Norine had made one flying visit already—had been clasped in Aunt Hetty's arms, had kissed Uncle Reuben's sunburnt cheek, had heard Uncle Joe's husky "Right glad to see you back, Norry," and—that was all. She took the old place, and, after one twilight talk, the past was never referred to. Truthfully and simply she told them all, not even excepting the darkest part—her own revenge bitterly repented of when too late. Now she and Helen and the children were going down for a long visit. One other guest there was to be—one who had spent every Christmas at Kent Hill during the past four years—Mr. Gilbert.
"Christmas wouldn't seem like Christmas now without him," Aunt Hetty said. "I don't believe there's his equal in wide America. A gentleman from top to toe, if there ever was one yet."
The children Aunt Hetty took to her motherly heart at once—Helen's pale lips she kissed, and Helen was at home in five minutes, as though she had known them for years. It was such a blessed, restful place—the tired heart drew a great sigh of relief, and felt half its weary load lifted off. For Norine—she was almost the Norine of old, flying up and down breezy stairways, in and out breezy rooms, the old songs rippling from her lips, until the thought of the pale, widowed wife down-stairs made her check them. Then came winter—the first fall of snow—the first gay sleighing. Little Laurie was wild with delight—even Helen's pale lips learned to smile. Kent Hill was working a transformation.
Christmas drew near, and among Norine's pleasant duties came that of decorating Mr. Gilbert's room, the old guest chamber, where he had spent so many happy, hopeful nights in the time when he had loved her. He despised her now. Ah, what a wretch she had been! He would despise her always. Well, she deserved it all; it didn't matter; but—and then a heavy sigh finished the thought. She was learning the value of what she had lost when too late.
Christmas arrived—Mr. Gilbert arrived. And Helen's wistful eyes looked into his face, and asked the question her lips were too proud to shape.
"There is no news," he said softly, as he bent over her chair; "only the old news. He is well—that is the best I can tell of him."
No more was said. Norine, proud and humble together, rather avoided him. Still they were of necessity a great deal together, indoors and out, and, in the genial glow and cheerfulness of the Christmas-time, the reserve of both melted. It began to be like old times—the bright color, the gay laugh, the light step, the sparkling eyes, the sweet singing, made Norine the very Norine of four years ago. And Mr. Gilbert—but Mr. Gilbert was ever quiet and undemonstrative; his calm, grave face told little, except that he was quietly happy; that you could see.