But Norma learned it, all the same, and learned, too, that never while that stormy heart beat in a living breast would it beat for her.  She faced the conclusion squarely, accepted it, and took her resolution.  Norma was a proud woman, and she never flinched; the world should know nothing of her pain, should never guess that her life held aught of disappointment.

A letter from Blanche to Berkeley, written within the following month, contained the result of Norma’s resolution.

“You will be surprised,” Blanche wrote, “to hear of Norma’s sudden marriage to Hugh Castleton, which took place three days ago, at the house of the American Minister here in Paris.  We were amazed—­at least mamma and I were—­when Hugh joined us here, and, after a long interview with Norma, informed us that he had cabled father for consent and that the ceremony was to take place almost immediately.  Hugh, as perhaps you know, is a brother of Mrs. Vincent, Norma’s intimate friend, and he has been in love with Norma time out of mind.  I do not like the marriage, and feel troubled and sick at heart about it.  It has been so hastily arranged, and Norma isn’t one bit in love with her husband, and don’t pretend to be.  Hugh is patient and devoted to her, which is my strongest hope for their happiness in the future.  It seems to me so unnatural to make a loveless marriage.  I can’t understand a woman’s doing it.  Nesbit is going to Palestine and the East.  He is miserably changed; his hair is beginning to streak with gray at the temples already, and the lines about his mouth are getting hard.  It makes me miserable to think about his life and his future.  I can’t help feeling that he has had hard measure meted out to him all around.  It is cruel to touch happiness but never grasp it.  I know what you all think about the affair, Berkeley, but I’m so wrought up about poor Nesbit, I must and will speak.  He ought not to be made to suffer so; it would be far kinder to take a pistol and kill him at once.  You don’t think about him at all—­and you should.  I know that I’m just a silly little thing, and that my opinions don’t amount to much, but I must say that I think you are wrong about this matter.  A human soul is worth more than a scruple, be the scruple ever so noble, and I believe the Heavenly Father thinks so too.  If you, who are strong and large-minded, will put prejudice aside and think the matter out fairly, you will be obliged to see that Pocahontas is doing wrong.  She is killing herself, and she is killing him, and you ought not to let her do it.  You know your influence over her—­I believe it is you and your mother—­the dread of disappointing you, or lowering herself in your estimation, or something of that sort, that holds her back.  Don’t do it any longer, Berkeley.  Be generous and noble and large-hearted, like God means us all to be toward each other.  It is awful to be so hard.  Excess of righteousness must be sinful—­almost