t she realizes now that he has never recovered since that time.
How can they answer her? Grandon is moved with infinite pity, yet words
are utterly futile. Nothing can comfort her with this awful reality
staring her in the face.

She buries her woe-stricken face in the pillow again. There is a long,
long silence. Then Denise bethinks herself of some homely household
duties. It is not right to leave her young mistress alone with this
gentleman, and yet,--but etiquette is so different here. Ah, if the
other one was like this, if she could go to such a husband; and
Denise's old heart swells at the thought of what cannot be, but is
tempting, nevertheless.

Towards evening Grandon feels that he must return for a brief while.
St. Vincent has rallied wonderfully again, and the pulse has gained
strength that is deceptive to all but Grandon.

"I will come back for the night," he says. "You must not be alone any
more. There ought to be some good woman to call upon."

Denise knows of none save the washerwoman, who will be here Tuesday
morning, but she is not certain such a body would be either comfort or
help. "And he could not bear strange faces about him; he is peculiar, I
think you call it. But it is hardly right to take all your time."

"Do not think of that for a moment," he returns, with hearty sympathy.

At home he finds Cecil asleep. "She was so lonely," explains Jane. "I
read to her and took her walking, but I never let her go out of my
sight an instant now," the girl says with a tremble in her voice. "She
talked of Miss Violet constantly, and her beautiful doll, and the tea
they had together, but she wouldn't go to madame nor to her Aunt
Gertrude."

Floyd kisses the sweet rosy mouth, and his first desire is to awaken
her, but he sits on the side of the bed and thinks if Violet were here
what happy days the child would have. She is still so near to her own
childhood; the secret is that so far she has never been considered
anything but a child. Her womanly life is all to come at its proper
time. There is everything for her to learn. The selfishness, the
deceit, the wretched hollowness and satiety of life,--will it ever be
hers, or is there a spring of perennial freshness in her soul? She
might as well come here as his ward. In time Eugene might fancy her.
There would be his mother and the two girls. Why does he shrink a
little and understand at once that they are not the kind of women to
train Violet? Better a hund