There was a sound as she said it, the house door opening. In the moonlight Aunt Hetty's spare, small figure appeared in the doorway, in the silence her pleasant voice called:
"Norine! Norine! come in out of the dew dear child."
Some giant hemlocks grew near the gate—Laurence Thorndyke drew her with him into their black shadow, and stood perfectly still. Brilliant as the moonlight was, Aunt Hetty might brush against them and not see them in the leafy gloom.
"I must go," whispered Norine; "she will be here in a moment in search of me. Laurence, let me go."
"But first—I must see you again. No one knows I am here, no one must know. When does Gilbert arrive?"
"To-morrow," she answered, with a sudden shiver.
"My darling, don't fear—you are mine now, mine only. Mine you shall remain." His eyes glittered strangely in the gloom as he said it. "We cannot meet to-morrow; but we must meet to-morrow night."
"No," she faltered, "no—no. It would be wrong, dishonorable. And I dare not, we would be discovered."
"Not if you do as I direct. What time do you all retire? Half-past ten?"
"Mostly."