"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."