persuaded me to forego my determination."

"No, mamma. I don't want to hear the details. The fact is enough for
me. If it would be any use for me to go down upon my knees and entreat
you to give up this man, I would gladly do it; but I fear it would be
no use."

"It would not. Violet," answered the widow, with modest resoluteness.
"I have given Conrad my word. I cannot withdraw it."

"Then I have nothing more to say," replied Vixen, with her hand upon
the door, "except good-night."

"You will not even kiss me?"

"Excuse me, mamma; I am not in a kissing humour."

And so Vixen left her.

Mrs. Tempest sat by the fading fire, and cried herself into a gentle
slumber. It was very hard. She had longed to pour the story of this
second courtship--its thrilling, unexpected joys, its wondrous
surprises--into a sympathetic ear. And Violet, the natural recipient of
these gentle confidences, had treated her so cruelly.

She felt herself sorely ill-used; and then came soothing
thoughts about her _trousseau_, her wedding-dress, the dress in which
she should start for her wedding-tour. All things would of course be
chastened and subdued. No woman can be a bride twice in her life; but
Mrs. Tempest meant that the _trousseau_ should, in its way, be perfect.
There should be no rush or excitement in the preparation; nothing
should be scamped or hurried. Calmness, deliberation, and a faultless
taste should pervade all things.

"I will have no trimming but Valenciennes for my under-linen," she
decided; "it is the only lace that never offends. And I will have old
English monograms in satin-stitch upon everything. My _peignoirs_ will
require a good deal of study; they admit of so much variety. I will
have only a few dresses, but those shall be from Paris. Theodore must
go over and get them from Worth. She knows what suits me better than I
do myself. I am not going to be extravagant, but Conrad so appreciates
elegance and taste; and of course he will wish me to be well dressed."

And so, comforted by these reflections, Mrs. Tempest sank into a gentle
slumber, from which she was awakened by Pauline, who had discussed her
mistress's foolishness over a hearty supper, and now came to perform
the duties of the evening toilet.

"Oh Pauline," cried the widow, with a shiver, "I'm glad you awoke me.
I've just had such an awful dream."

"Lor', ma'am! What about?"

"Oh, an awful dream. I thought Madame Theodore sent me home a
_trousseau_