sharply. She got up and walked
up and down the room, inwardly complaining against Providence for using
her so badly. To have such a rebellious daughter! It was sharper than a
serpent's tooth.

The time had not been allowed to go by without some endeavour being
made to bring Violet to a better state of feeling. That was the tone
taken about her by Mrs. Tempest and the Vicar's wife in their
conferences. The headstrong misguided girl was to be brought to a
better state of mind. Mrs. Scobel tackled her, bringing all her
diplomacy to bear, but without avail. Vixen was rock. Then Mr. Scobel
undertook the duty, and, with all the authority of his holy office,
called upon Violet to put aside her unchristian prejudices, and behave
as a meek and dutiful daughter.

"Is it unchristian to hate the man who has usurped my father's place?"
Violet asked curtly.

"It is unchristian to hate anyone. And you have no right to call
Captain Winstanley a usurper. You have no reason to take your mother's
marriage so much to heart. There is nothing sinful, or even radically
objectionable in a second marriage; though I admit that, to my mind, a
woman is worthier in remaining faithful to her first love; like Anna
the prophetess, who had been a widow fourscore-and-four years. Who
shall say that her exceptional gift of prophecy may not have been a
reward for the purity and fidelity of her life?"

Mr. Scobel's arguments were of no more effect than his wife's
persuasion. His heart was secretly on Violet's side. He had loved the
Squire, and he thought this marriage of Mrs. Tempest's a foolish, if
not a shameful thing. There was no heartiness in the feeling with which
he supervised the decoration of his pretty tittle church for the
wedding.

"If she were only awake," thought Mrs. Tempest, "I would make a last
appeal to her feelings, late as it is. Her heart cannot be stone."

She took her candle, and went through the dark silent house to Violet's
room, and knocked gently.

"Come in," said the girl's clear voice with a wakeful sound.

"Ah!" thought Mrs. Tempest triumphantly, "obstinate as she is, she
knows she is doing wrong. Conscience won't let her sleep."

Vixen was standing at her window, leaning with folded arms upon the
broad wooden ledge, looking out at the dim garden, over which the pale
stars were shining. There was a moon, but it was hidden by drifting
clouds.

"Not in bed, Violet?" said her mother sweetly.

"No, mamma."

"What