Fanny sobbed; but she did not offer to return Norine’s caresses. She had come simply that she might see this woman; and now she regretted that she had come. She felt it almost as a personal affront that Norine should be dignified and beautiful when she was neither. So she sat and sobbed, perhaps as much from vexation as from grief. Norine brought a bottle of cologne, and gently bathed Fanny’s face and eyes with it, speaking to her softly and sympathetically. “I do not wonder you are overcome,” she said. “It is so sad.” Fanny ceased her sobbing, and put Norine’s hands away from her. “I did not intend to cry,” she said, struggling to be calm. “I wanted to thank you for your consideration. They tell me that you had the best right to him. Is that so?” “He was my husband,” replied Norine quietly. Fanny rose from her chair. “If your story is true, you have been very kind not to take him from me after he is dead.” “I should not have tried to take him from you if he had lived,” said Norine, drawing herself up a little. “Why, did you not love him?” “Yes, I did love him once; but that was before I knew. I have thought myself a widow all these years.” “Then, for goodness’ sake, why did you come here to make all this trouble?” cried Fanny spitefully. Norine drew back a little. “I did not come to make trouble,” she said coldly. “I did not know that he was alive until I saw him come into the room.” “Oh, I know--I know!” replied Fanny impatiently. “But you might have acted differently. Why did you not speak to him then?” “How could I?” asked Norine, amazed; and then she added quietly: “There, dear; we had better not talk about it now.” Perhaps Fanny was of her opinion, for after thanking her again in a deeply injured tone of voice, and querulously bemoaning her own hard lot in life, she departed, leaving Norine prostrated after the interview. Jim had been haunted by a familiar presence, one which seemed continually near him, and yet eluded his attention. He was conscious of this feeling as he walked to the door of the hotel, after leaving his sister. A little way down the street appeared the figure of a tall man dressed in sober black. There was something in the walk and figure so familiar that Jim, out of idle curiosity, followed it. The nearer he got, the more familiar it became, until, with a smothered exclamation of astonishment, he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Harland!” he cried. “Can this be you? How came you here?” His secretary--for he it was--turned to him meekly. He took off his hat and stood with his head bowed, and his thin gray hair blowing about his face. “It is I, sir,” he said humbly. “I am sorry to have left New York without your knowledge; but, sir, I had to come.” “Had to!” repeated Jim, in angry amazement. “Why did you have to come?” The old man’s figure seemed to shrink together, and his head fell on his breast.