“It does not appear to have been simply a mistake—it is too pointed. It seems like a practical joke, and a most cruel one,” Norman said, with bitter anger, thinking how hard it had been for him to part with his beautiful young wife.
A fierce resentment arose within him against the author of the cruel joke, and he resolved that the guilty party should be well punished if ever found out.
“It is all the more annoying to me that Sweetheart was so unwilling that I should come,” he said; and lovely Lady Edith gave a violent start, and echoed, with paling lips:
“Sweetheart!”
“It is my pet name for my wife,” Norman explained, flushing slightly, and she answered, more calmly:
“Ah, yes!”
But the fair face had grown paler than usual, and there was a shadow of pain in the sweet blue eyes. To herself she murmured, sorrowfully:
“Sweetheart! How the word carried me back to the past. Oh, my little one, my baby angel, how my heart yearns for you still.”
Norman resumed, hastily:
“Within an hour I shall start on my return South. I am most restless and uneasy. A foreboding of evil haunts me, and I shall not feel satisfied until I am at Verelands and find my dear ones safe and well. May I hope that you will bear me company on my journey?”