everent and grave, and breathes a prayer. He wants
guidance so much, and yet--does one pray about secular affairs? he
wonders.

Denise taps lightly at the door. She looks refreshed, but the awe will
not soon go out of her old face. Mr. St. Vincent has rested quietly,
his pulse is no weaker; how could it be to live? He stirs and opens his
eyes. They feed him some broth and a little wine, and he drops off
drowsily again.

"You are so good," says the grateful old creature, who studies him with
wistful eyes. Has she any unspoken hope?

While she waits he goes down to stretch his cramped limbs. The doctor
can do no good and will not come to-day. There is no one else to call
upon. He must stay; it would be brutal to leave them alone.

Denise has a lovely little breakfast spread for him, but Violet is not
present. Denise, too, has her Old World ideas. He goes up again to the
invalid, and after an hour or two walks down home. His mother and
madame are at church, as he supposed they would be. He talks a little
to Gertrude, who is nervous and shocked at the thought of any one
dying, and wonders if it can make any difference to the business. He
takes a walk with Cecil, who coaxes to go back with him to her dear
Miss Violet, but he convinces her that it cannot be to-day; to-morrow,
perhaps.

He walks back, rambling down to the spot where Cecil came so near
destruction. The land-slide is clearly visible, the young tree, torn up
by the roots, is a ghost, with brown, withered leaves, and there are
the jagged rocks going steeply down to the shore. If no hand had been
there to save! If no steady foot had dared climb from point to point!
He wonders now how she did it! It seems a greater miracle than before.
And how strange that Cecil should evince such an unwonted partiality
for Miss St. Vincent! Does it all point one way to a certain ending?

It is well that Floyd Grandon has taken this path. He goes up through
the garden and hears a voice at the hall door.

"You cannot see him," Denise is saying. "He is scarcely conscious, and
cannot be disturbed. Your call of yesterday made him much worse."

"But I must see him, my good woman!" in an imperative tone. "If he is
going to die, it is so much the more necessary."

"It is Sunday," she replies. "You can talk no business, you can do him
no good."

"Who is here with him?"

"No one," she answers, "but his daughter and myself. Go away and leave
us to our quiet. If you must see him,