is the first time I have known him speak of
it, and he could not get out her name.'

'It is nearly two years ago.'

'Nearly. She died in June. It was that cold late summer, and her funeral
was in the middle of a hail-storm, horridly chilly.'

'Where was she buried?'

'At Brogden. Old Mr. Fotheringham was buried there, and she was brought
there. I came home for it. What a day it was--the hailstones standing on
the grass, and I shall never forget poor John's look--all shivering and
shrunk up together.' He shivered at the bare remembrance. 'It put the
finishing touch to the damage he had got by staying in England with her
all the winter. By night he was frightfully ill--inflammation worse than
ever. Poor John! That old curmudgeon of a grandfather has much to answer
for, though you ought to be grateful to him, Violet; for I suppose it
will end in that boy of yours being his lordship some time or other.'

The next morning was a brisk one with Violet. She wished Arthur not to
be anxious about leaving her, and having by no means ceased to think it
a treat to see him in uniform, she gloried in being carried to her sofa
by so grand and soldierly a figure, and uttered her choicest sentence of
satisfaction--'It is like a story!' while his epaulette was scratching
her cheek.

'I don't know how to trust you to your own silly devices,' said he,
laying her down, and lingering to settle her pillows and shawls.

'Wise ones,' said she. 'I have so much to do. There's baby--and there's
Mr. Harding to come, and I want to see the cook--and I should not wonder
if I wrote to mamma. So you see 'tis woman's work, and you had better
not bring your red coat home too soon, or you'll have to finish the
letter!' she added, with saucy sweetness.

On his return, he found her spread all over with papers, her little
table by her side, with the drawer pulled out.

'Ha! what mischief are you up to? You have not got at those abominable
accounts again!'

'I beg your pardon,' said she, humbly. 'Nurse would not let me speak
to the cook, but said instead I might write to mamma; so I sent for
my little table, but I found the drawer in such disorder, that I was
setting it to rights. Who can have meddled with it!'

'I can tell you that,' said Arthur. 'I ran against it, and it came to
grief, and there was a spread of all your goods and chattels on the
floor.'

'Oh! I am so glad! I was afraid some of the servants had been at it.'

'What! aren't you i