ing her in the morning," he answers,
indulgently.

Violet kisses her and bundles her up in a white fleecy shawl. The sun
has gone down and the air has cooled perceptibly. Cecil talks a while
enthusiastically, as she snuggles close to her father in the wagon;
then there is a sudden silence. She is so soundly asleep that her
father carries her up and lays her on her pretty white cot without
awaking her. Dinner has been kept waiting, and Mrs. Grandon is not in
an angelic temper, but madame's exquisite suavity smooths over the
rough places. Floyd feels extremely obliged for this little attention.
He makes no demur when she claims him for the evening, and discusses
the future, _her_ future, with him. To-morrow she must go to the city.

"I have an errand down, too," he says, "and can introduce you at a
banking house. They could tell you better about investments than I."

She is delighted with the result of the evening, and fancies that he is
beginning to find the child something of a bore. It was a pretty
plaything at first, but it can be naughty and troublesome. Ah, Madame
Lepelletier, fascinating as you are, if you could see how his thoughts
have been wandering, and witness the passion with which he kisses his
sleeping child and caresses the bandaged arm, you would not be quite so
certain of your triumph.

He does not write to Eugene, it is so late, and he has a curious
disinclination. By this time he has surely decided. A letter may come
to-morrow, and it may be better to wait until he hears.

When he wakes in the morning, Cecil is entertaining Jane with a history
of her adventures wherein all things are mingled.

"A doll!" exclaims Jane. "Why, is she a little girl?"

"She isn't _very_ big," says Cecil; "not like Aunt Gertrude or madame;
and the most beautiful dishes that came from Paris! That's where madame
was. And she laughs so and makes such dimples in her face, such sweet
dimples,--just a little place where I could put my finger, and she let
me. It was so soft and pink," with a lingering cadence. "I like her
next best to papa."

"And you've only seen her once!" says Jane, reproachfully.

"But--she kept me from falling on the rocks, you know. I might have
been hurt ever so much more; why maybe I might have been killed!"

"You were a naughty little girl to run away," interpolates Jane, with
some severity.

"I shall never run away again, Jane," Cecil promises, with solemnity.
"But I didn't mean to slip. Some