Norine asked no questions as to his business. She would not seek his confidence, but was always pleased whenever he would volunteer any information. If he was successful while away from the farm, he was not improved thereby, for his temper became more uncertain with every visit. But Norine never spoke of it, and so Jim, whose blood very often boiled over some passionate word, was disarmed. He had a great dread of interfering between man and wife, had Jim, and so he held himself in check, only waiting until Norine should seek his help. “Jim,” said Norine, one evening, when they were sitting before the kitchen fire, with little Clinton asleep in his crib between them, “is it not strange that we have never heard from Aunt Darling?” “I suppose if she wanted us to hear she would have written,” replied Jim a little gruffly. “Do you think we had better write again, Jim?” “No,” said Jim, rising, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “I don’t. If she wants to see us, let her come here.” “I should like so much to have her see my baby,” said Norine musingly; “but I don’t suppose she ever will.” “He will probably live just as long if she doesn’t,” replied Jim testily. “I think we have done our share, and rather more. Now it is her turn.” “Perhaps she never received our letter,” hazarded Norine. “Received it? Of course she received it,” asserted Jim scornfully. “If she had not received it, it would have been returned to us. It is easy enough to see that she wants to have nothing to do with us, and you had better forget her as quickly as possible.” And he stamped out of the little kitchen, feeling very indignant and determined, while Norine, busied with her household cares, took his advice and forgot for a time, at least, all about their unfriendly relative. CHAPTER X. UNMIXED MISERY. “Norine,” said Clinton, one day when he had returned to the farm after a more than usually prolonged absence, “what is this I hear about the doctor?” “What is it, Clinton? Nothing serious, I hope?” said Norine. “He is not ill?” “No, he is not ill that I know of,” replied Clinton, “so you need not exhibit so much anxiety.” There was something in her husband’s tone so like a sneer that it grated on Norine’s feelings. She looked up at him inquiringly. “Am I not right to feel anxious about so good a friend?” she asked. “Friend!” repeated Clinton sneeringly. “He has been a very good friend to _you_!” “Has he not been a good friend to you, Clinton?” “Friend to me? No; we have never been friends in the past, and we are still less likely to be friendly in the future.” “Oh, Clinton!” cried Norine pleadingly. “You forget, dear husband. You would not say that if you were not angry. What is this you have heard, dear? Something wrong, I am sure.” And she stood before him with her hands crossed over her breast in an attitude that was unconsciously supplicating. “I have heard that he was your lover!”