“I do not understand it,” she said at last. “Why should you get a divorce from me? What have I done?” “You have done nothing; you are accused of nothing,” he said hastily. “I was dead to you; I hoped never to see you again; and--and so I got the divorce on the plea of desertion. Such things are done daily,” he went on, feebly trying to excuse himself. “It is only a question of money.” “No, it is not a question of money!” cried Norine, and she drew herself up proudly before him. “It is a question of honor and right.” “I have not injured you by it,” he sneered. “I should not care if you had,” she replied quickly. “I should still be innocent. But you have injured yourself, and you have injured all mankind by it. And your child?” she went on, her voice softening. “Do you never think of your son, that innocent child who, ever since he could lisp, has prayed for his father’s soul?” “Yes, I think of him--and of you. Tell me about him.” “There is nothing to tell,” replied Norine brokenly. “I can never tell my boy the truth about his father.” “No; that is best,” he said sadly. “Do not tell him. It is not necessary.” She looked at him sadly. “I thought I would have so much to say to you,” she said; “but I have not. I think I understand you now--for the first time. I wish you were not so bad. I wish I could tell little Clinton the truth.” “You had better not,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Bad as I am, I do not care to have my child know it.” “I will not tell him,” she said, as she moved to the door. “And I hope you will think of him often; he is so pure and innocent; perhaps it will make you better.” “Wait!” he said hastily; and he rapidly detached his massive gold watch from its chain. “You will not refuse me the right to make my son a present? You need not tell him; only when he gets old enough to wear it, give it to him, and say that it was his father’s.” Norine hesitated. “I have no right to refuse you,” she said at last. And then, without a word of farewell, without his even having touched her hand, she was gone. At the gate she met Conway, who was just coming in. “Norine! you here?” he cried in astonishment. “Yes; I have seen him, Lester,” she said, hurriedly. “Come back with me to the hotel, and then you can return.” And, taking his arm, she walked by his side, and told him everything that had passed between them. Conway said very little, but his lips were set in tight, rigid lines, and his hands were clinched. This would make it harder for her, he thought; for who could tell her how utterly false that paper was? And, leaving her at the hotel, Conway paced moodily back to the mill. CHAPTER XXX. HOW ELWELL ESCAPED.