the worn frame.

It is as the doctor has predicted. A terrible restlessness ensues, a
pressure for breath, the precursors of the fatal struggle. He begs that
Violet will go out in the air again, she is so pale, but he does not
want her to witness this agony. They have had some brief, fond talks,
and she is safe. All the rest he will meet bravely.

The hours pass on and night comes. Violet kisses him and then takes
Cecil to her own little room, where they fall asleep in each other's
arms. The child is so sweet. She can never be quite forlorn with her.
So much of her life has been passed apart from her father that it seems
now as if he was going on a journey and would come back presently.

But in the morning he goes on the last journey, holding Floyd Grandon's
warm hand in his nerveless grasp. "My son," he sighs, and gives his
fond, fond love to Violet.

They let her go in the room with Denise; she pleads to have it so.
Floyd paces the hall with Cecil in his arms. He cannot explain the
mystery to her and does not attempt it, but she is quite content in the
promise that Miss Violet is to come and live with them.

Jane goes over with a note, and instructions to mention nothing beside
the fact of the death, Mrs. Grandon and madame get off to New York, and
Floyd fortifies himself for the evening's explanation.

Violet is not noisy in her grief. She would like to sit all day and
hold the dead hand in hers, watch the countenance that looks no paler
now, and much more tranquil than it has for days. She is utterly
incredulous in the face of this great mystery. He is asleep. He will
come back.

"Violet," Grandon says, at length. Is he going to love and cherish her
as some irksome duty? He has never proffered love. In that old time all
was demanded and given. Violet will demand nothing and be content. He
draws her to him, the round, quivering chin rests in the palm of his
hand, the eyes are tearful, entreating. He kisses the red, tremulous
lips, not with a man's passionate fervor, but he feels them quiver
beneath his, and he sees a pale pink tint creep up to the brow. She is
very sweet, and she is his, not his ward, but his wife.

"I hope we shall be happy," he says. "I shall try to do everything----"

"You have been so good, so kind. Denise worships you," she says,
simply.

He wonders if she will ever worship him? He thought he should not care
about it, but some feeling stirs within him now that makes cold
possession s