“Why did she come here then?” cried Fanny, with unreasoning petulance. To this her father made no answer. “I would be glad to have you see her,” he said, as he left the room. “It is your place to, after all she has done for you.” Fanny was struggling between her spite and curiosity, and eventually her curiosity triumphed. “I will go and see her, if you wish it,” she said at last; and Morain left the room, thinking that his daughter’s heart was not so bad after all. As for Norine, she had been greatly shocked when Jim told her of Clinton’s death, and had wept bitter tears of sorrow; but she did not mourn for him as she had mourned before. He had been dead to her all these years, and she knew now how little reason she had to mourn his death. There was no grief in her tears now, only sorrow--sorrow for her innocent child, and sorrow for the great wrong his father had done. “I pity that poor woman!” she sobbed. “She has been wronged so bitterly. Take me to her, Jim, and let me comfort her a little.” But this Jim would not do. “You have not wronged her,” he said, “and we will see that there shall be no scandal to increase her sorrow. But I would prefer that you did not see her.” Jim did not tell her of Fanny’s spiteful words. They were excusable, perhaps, under the circumstances; but he had not been favorably impressed by this superficial, overdressed woman, and he did not want to subject his sister to possible insults. The fact was he had wanted to get away at once, being afraid that Norine would break down under these repeated shocks; but this his sister would not listen to. “He has done wrong,” she said simply--“great wrong; but he was little Clinton’s father, and I must stay until it is all over.” She never alluded to the dead man as her husband, only as Clinton’s father. “He preferred another to me,” she thought proudly, “and I will not dispute her claim;” and she kept close in her room, waiting for the time when she was to see the father of her child laid under the ground. She was sitting alone in her room, thinking sadly of the past, and of all that “might have been,” when there came a gentle tap at the door. “Come in,” called Norine, rising in expectation; and the next moment Fanny entered the room. She was dressed in deepest mourning, and her heavy black veil and ample mourning robes contrasted sadly with Norine’s simple black dress. Her eyes were red and heavy-looking, and her appearance subdued. Norine had risen as she entered, and came forward to meet her. “You are Fanny, I know,” she said, kissing her, and leading her to a chair. “You are very kind to think of me at such a time.” Fanny looked at her curiously. “I did not think you would care to see me,” she said wearily. “I am glad!” cried Norine, with her arms around Fanny’s neck. “We should be sisters, dear, for we have both been widowed.”