at her open door. This lady put her arm round her waist, led her into the chamber toward the light. "Something has happened," she said, looking at her curiously.
"Yes, I have had an offer of marriage. From Roger."
"Well, well?" Mrs. Keith was puzzled by her face. "Is n't it kind of him? To think he should have thought it necessary! It was soon settled."
"Settled, dearest? How?"
"Why—why—" And Nora began to smile the more resolutely, as her imagination had taken alarm. "I declined."
Mrs. Keith released her with a gesture almost tragical. "Declined? Unhappy girl!" The words were charged with a righteous indignation so unusual to the speaker that Nora's conscience took the hint.
She turned very pale. "What have I done?" she asked, appealingly.
"Done, my dear? You have done a blind, cruel act! Look here." And Mrs. Keith having hastily ransacked a drawer, turned about with an open letter. "Read that and repent."
Nora took the letter; it was old and crumpled, the ink faded. She glanced at the date,—that of her first school year. In a moment she had read to the closing sentence. "It will be my own fault if I have not a perfect wife." In a moment more its heavy meaning overwhelmed her; its vital spark flashed back over the interval of years. She seemed to see Roger's bent, stunned head in the street. Mrs. Keith was frightened at her work. Nora dropped the letter and stood staring, open-mouthed, pale as death, with her poor young face blank with horror.
