Jim was very angry over it, and when at last Clinton spoke to him of the frequency of the doctor’s visits, Jim told him in plain language that “Conway was _his_ friend, and as long as _he_ had a house, Lester Conway would be welcome there.” And then honest Jim regretted having spoken so sharply, and thought remorsefully that it would all be visited on poor Norine, whom he could see was daily becoming paler and more sorrowful. How Conway ever became acquainted with the true state of affairs, will never be known, but he solved that trouble by discontinuing his visits altogether. Yet, if there was not one trouble there was always another, and the little family were far from being happy. And the winter passed away and spring came again without bringing any promise of a better condition of affairs. Clinton grew more and more changeable as the time went on, sometimes coming home as affectionate as he had ever been in those old days that seemed so long ago. Then Norine would be flushed and happy, and the baby would be brought out crowing and kicking. Jim would smoke away, in placid contentment, and the little cottage would assume the old look of comfort and happiness. At other times, and they were far more frequent, he would come in a state described by Mrs. Higgins as “crosser nor a b’ar with his ha’r off,” and then the little cottage became a very miserable place indeed. He was in this disagreeable state one blustering day in March, and Jim, greatly chafed in temper, had retired to the kitchen, where he was smoking dismally, and keeping very much in Mrs. Higgins’ way. That good woman, for a wonder, was not out of temper, and she walked around him without even a snort of protest. This unusual conduct became so marked at last that even Jim noticed it, and gazed at her in wonder. She was busy preparing their evening meal, but evidently thinking of something far more serious, for she moved about the little kitchen in such a nervous, apprehensive way, her withered face working with emotion, that Jim stared at her curiously. “What is it?” he said at last; “is there anything wrong?” She started nervously at the sound of his voice. “Yes, there is,” she said; “somethin’ mighty wrong.” “What is it?” “Jim Bright,” she said, coming up to him and laying her shriveled, work-hardened hand upon his arm, “do you remember such a storm as this before?” Jim bent to listen to the howling of the wind outside, and slightly shook his head. “Just two years ergo, Jim Bright,” she said nervously; “just two years ergo.” Jim looked at her wonderingly, and not understanding her, shook his head again.