Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir. May Agnes Fleming

is just two weeks too late. I owe you two or three little grudges for your espionage of the past, and for two or three little games blocked, and I think I see my way clearly to wiping them out at last. A thousand thanks my charming little nurse." Aloud to Norine, entering with pipe and pipe-light:

      "What should I ever do without you?"

      Mr. Gilbert, escorted by Aunt Hester, reached the stable, where Uncle Reuben stood busily curry-combing Kitty.

      "I want to speak half-a-dozen words in private to you, Kent," the lawyer began, abruptly enough. "You will tell your good sister here at your convenience, if you see fit. You must excuse my seeming rudeness, Miss Kent, and say good-by, now."

      He shook hands with her cordially, and watched her out of sight. Then he turned to her brother.

      "We are quite alone?" he asked.

      "Quite, squire. Take a seat."

      He brought forward a stool, but Mr. Gilbert waved it away.

      "No, no, what I have to say will take but a minute, and then I shall be going. I want to speak to you of that young man who is your guest – Laurence Thorndyke."

      "Wal, squire."

      "You have not known me very long, Mr. Kent, but I think, I hope, you have known me long enough to trust me, to believe what I say, to understand I have no selfish motive. It is for" – he paused a moment – "it is for your niece's sake I speak, you can hardly take a deeper interest in her welfare than I do."

      Was there ever so slight a tremor in the grave, steady voice, or did Reuben Kent only fancy it? He paused in Kitty's toilet and looked at him keenly.

      "Wal, squire?" he said again.

      "Laurence Thorndyke is no fit, no safe companion for your niece. He is not a good man, he is as false as he is fascinating. She is only seventeen, she knows nothing of the world, nothing of such men as he, and believe me, Kent, it won't do."

      Reuben Kent looked up, a sudden flash in his eye, a sudden redness in his face.

      "Go on," he said, curtly.

      "I am afraid Miss Bourdon cares more for him already than – " He paused again and averted his face. "You know what I mean. He is handsome, and she is only a girl. She will grow to love him, and he could not marry her if he would, he is already engaged, and unless I mistake him greatly, would not if he could. Mr. Kent, this young man will go away, and Norine will be neither the better nor the happier for his coming."

      His voice was husky. Something of the pain he felt was in his face. The farmer stretched forth and caught the lawyer's hand in a hard grip.

      "Thanky, squire," he said; "I ain't a man to jaw much, but I believe you, and am obliged to you for this. If that young jacknapes from York tries to come any of his city games down here, by the Lord Jehosaphat! I'll lay him up with something worse than a broken arm!"

      "Can you not avert the danger?" suggested Mr. Gilbert. "It may not be too late. Send the fellow away."

      "Wal, squire, you see that mightn't be doing the square thing by him. It would look unpleasantly like turning him out. No, I can't send him away until the doctor says he's fit to go, but, by ginger, I'll send her!"

      "Will she go?"

      Uncle Reuben chuckled.

      "We won't ask her. I'll fix it off. We've some cousins thirty miles up country, and they've invited her time and again, but, somehow, we've never felt – Joe and me – as though we could spare her afore. It's powerful lonesome, I tell ye, squire, when Norry ain't around. But now – I'll take her to-morrow morning."

      "The best thing you can do. And now, before it gets any later and stormier, I will be off. Good-by, Mr. Kent, for the present."

      "Good-by, and thanky, squire, thanky. You'll be along again soon, hey?"

      "Well, perhaps so," replied the lawyer, coloring slightly. "Take care of your niece, Kent, and good-by to you."

      They parted at the gate. Reuben Kent watched the stalwart form of the lawyer out of sight, then walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the house and the sitting-room. Mr. Thorndyke, in a deep, melodious tenor, was reading aloud "Lucille," and Miss Bourdon, with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes of light, was listening.

      The reading ceased at the farmer's entrance; the spell was broken, and Norine looked up.

      "Has Mr. Gilbert gone, Uncle Reuben?"

      "Yes."

      He said it with unusual gravity, regarding young Thorndyke. The girl saw the change in his usually good humored, red-and-tan face, and went over and threw an arm around his neck.

      "What is it, uncle? Something gone wrong?"

      "No – yes. Nothing that can't be set right, I hope. Where's your aunt?"

      "In the kitchen baking cake. Shall I run and call her?"

      "No, I'll go myself."

      He left the room. Mr. Thorndyke watched him.

      "It is as I thought," he said to himself. "My label is up, 'dangerous.' What has Gilbert been saying? Has he given Uncle Reuben my whole interesting biography? Has he told him I drink, I gamble, I make love to pretty girls wherever I meet them? All right, my legal duffer; you have set your forty-years-old heart on pretty, black-eyed, belle Norine, and so have I. Now, let's see who'll win."

      Mr. Kent found his sister in the kitchen, baking, as Norine had said, cakes for tea, their fragrant sweetness perfuming the hot air. In very few words he repeated to her the lawyer's warning.

      "We might a seen it ourselves, Hetty, if we hadn't been blinder than bats. I'll take her up to Abel Merryweather's to-morrow, and just leave her thar till this ere chap goes."

      "Will you tell her, Reuben?" Aunt Hetty asked.

      "No; I kinder don't like to, somehow. She'll guess without any telling, I reckon. If I told her, she might tell him, there ain't never no countin' on gals, and then he'd be after her hot foot. Least said's soonest mended. Jest call her down to help you, Hetty, and keep her here as long as you can. What with his poetry reading, his singing, his fine talk, and good-lookin' face, he's enough to turn any gal's head."

      "It was very good of Mr. Gilbert to tell you, Reuben."

      "Very."

      They looked at each other, and smiled. Poor Richard Gilbert! Your cherished secret was very large print after all.

      "Mr. Gilbert's her best friend, and sets heaps by her," said Uncle Reuben rising. "Call the girl at once, Hetty."

      He left the kitchen and Aunt Hester obeyed. Norine was summoned from "Lucille," and Mr. Thorndyke – to look after the cakes, to make tea, to roll out the short-cake, to butter the biscuits, to set the table. For once Aunt Hester turned lazy and left everything to Norine. She had not breathing space until supper was on the table.

      After supper it was as bad. Contrary to all precedent, instead of going to the piano, Norine got a basket of socks to darn. She looked at the heap and the rents with laughing dismay.

      "All these for me, Aunty! I'll never get through in the world, and I want to practice my new songs with Mr. Thorndyke."

      "Mr. Thorndyke will excuse you, I am sure," Aunt Hetty answered quietly. "You sing a great deal more for him than you darn for me. You darn very badly – it is time that you learned something useful. Here is your needle and ball, my dear, go to work at once."

      Miss Bourdon made a little wry face; Mr. Thorndyke's laughing blue eyes looked knowing. Love and music were to be exchanged for cooking and darning, all thanks to Mr. Gilbert.

      Aunt Hester placed herself between her guest and her niece, and kept her post like a very duenna all the evening. No poetry, no music, no compliments, no love-making, only silence and sock-darning. Laurence Thorndyke reclining on his lounge, even his efforts at conversation falling flat, saw and understood it all perfectly. By Gilbert's order the ewe lamb was to be guarded from the wolf. And his spirit rose with the resistance.

      "Guard her as you like," he said inwardly, – "watch her as you will, I'll baffle the