been a lonely moment in it. The
wistful face haunts Grandon through the homeward ride, and he hardly
hears Cecil's prattle.

He makes a brief explanation to his mother and leaves excuses for
madame, who is lying down in order to be fresh and enchanting for
evening. His orders for Jane are rather more lengthy, and she is to
comfort Cecil if he should not be home for breakfast.

He has a simple supper in the little nest among the cliffs. Violet
pours the tea with a serene unconsciousness. She is nothing but a
child. Her life and education have been so by rule, emotions repressed,
bits of character trimmed and trained, though they have not taken all
out, he is sure. She is very proper and precise now, a little afraid
she shall blunder somewhere, and with a rare delicacy will not mention
the child, lest its father should think she has coaxed it from some
duty or love. He almost smiles to himself as he speculates upon her.
Once there was just such another,--no, the other was unlike her in all
but youth and beauty, with a hundred coquettish ways where this one is
honest, simple, and sincere. Could _she_ have served a table gravely
like this, and made no vain use of lovely eyes or dimpled mouth?

He goes up-stairs and takes his place as a watcher. There is nothing to
do but administer a few drops of medicine every half-hour. The evening
is warm and he sits by the open window, trying _not_ to think, telling
himself that in honor he has no right to for the next forty hours, and
then the decision must come. He could fight her battle so much better
if--if he had the one right, but does he want it? He has counted on
many other things in his life. For his dead father's sake he is willing
to make some sacrifice, but why should this come to him?

The stars shine out in the wide blue heavens, the wind whispers softly
among the leaves, the water ripples in the distance. The mysterious
noises of night grow shriller for a while, then fainter, until at
midnight there is scarcely a sound. How strangely solemn to sit here by
this lapsing soul, that but a little while ago was the veriest stranger
to him! He has sent Denise to bed, Violet is sleeping with childhood's
ease and unconsciousness. A week hence and everything will be changed
for her; she will never be a child again.

There is a pale bit of moon towards morning, then faint streaks raying
up in the east, and sounds of life once more. A sacred Sunday morning.
He feels unusually r