fternoon sunshine, the perfume of the
gardens floating in upon the soft summer air. A tiny teapot and cup and
saucer on a Japanese tray showed that the invalid had been luxuriating
in her favourite stimulant. There were vases of flowers about the room,
and an all-pervading perfume and coolness--a charm half sensuous, half
aesthetic.

"Violet, how could you send me such a message?" remonstrated the
invalid fretfully.

"Dear mamma, I did not want to trouble you. I know how you shrink from
all painful things; and you and I could hardly part without pain, as we
are parting to-day. Would it not have been better to avoid any
farewell?"

"If you had any natural affection, you would never have suggested such
a thing."

"Then perhaps I have never had any natural affection," answered Vixen,
with subdued bitterness; "or only so small a stock that it ran out
early in my life, and left me cold and hard and unloving. I am sorry we
are parting like this, mamma. I am still more sorry that you could not
spare me a little of the regard which you have bestowed so lavishly
upon a stranger."

"Violet, how can you?" sobbed her mother. "To accuse me of withholding
my affection from you, when I have taken such pains with you from your
very cradle! I am sure your frocks, from the day you were short-coated,
were my constant care; and when you grew a big, lanky girl, who would
have looked odious in commonplace clothes, it was my delight to invent
picturesque and becoming costumes for you. I have spent hours poring
over books of prints, studying Vandyke and Sir Peter Lely, and I have
let you wear some of my most valuable lace; and as for indulgence of
your whims! Pray when have I ever thwarted you in anything?"

"Forgive me, mamma!" cried Vixen penitently. She divined dimly--even in
the midst of that flood of bitter feeling in which her young soul was
overwhelmed--that Mrs. Winstanley had been a good mother, according to
her lights. The tree had borne such fruit as was natural to its kind.
"Pray forgive me! You have been good and kind and indulgent, and we
should have gone on happily together to the end of the chapter, if fate
had been kinder."

"It's no use your talking of fate in that way, Violet," retorted her
mother captiously. "I know you mean Conrad."

"Perhaps I do, mamma; but don't let us talk of him any more. We should
never agree about him. You and he can be quite happy when I am gone.
Poor, dear, trusting, innocent-minded mam