come to-morrow."

He takes out a pencil and writes a rather lengthy message. "Give this
to him, and to no one else," he says, sharply, turning away with
evident reluctance.

"Oh!" Denise cries as she espies Mr. Grandon, "if I had known you were
here; I was afraid he would force his way in."

"I am glad you did not: I shall see that there is some one here all the
time now."

"He is much better. He has asked for you, and eaten a little."

A white figure like a ghost stands beside them. Every bit of color has
gone out of the blossom-tinted face, and the eyes look large and
desperate in their frightened depths.

"What is it?" she says. "Mr. Grandon, Denise, what is it the man said
about papa? Is he--dying? Oh, it cannot be! Is this why you do not want
me to see him?"

They start like a couple of conspirators, speechless.

"Oh!" with a wild, piercing cry. "Will he die? And I have just come
home to stay, to comfort him, to make him happy. Oh, what shall I do?
To be left all alone! Let me go to him."

Denise catches her in the fond old arms, where she sobs as if her heart
would break. Grandon turns away, then says brokenly, "I will go up to
him. Some one must tell him. She ought to be with him."

St. Vincent is awake and quite revived. Grandon touches carefully on
this little scene, and proposes that Violet shall be allowed in the
sick-room, since the sad secret has been betrayed.

"Oh, how can I leave her?" he groans, in anguish, "alone, unprotected,
to fight her way through strife and turmoil, to learn the world's
coldness and cruelty! or perhaps be made a prey through her very
innocence that has been so sedulously guarded. Heaven help us both!"

"It will all be right, believe me," says the strong, firm voice. "And
the shock would be terrible to her if there were no sweet last words to
remember afterward. Comfort her a little with your dying love."

He signs with his hand. Grandon goes down-stairs again.

"Violet, my child," he says, with a tenderness no one but Cecil has
ever heard in his voice, "listen to me. You must control your grief a
little or it will be so much harder for your father. You know the sad
secret now. Can you comfort him these few days, and trust to God for
your solace afterward? Nothing can so soothe these hours as a
daughter's love,--if you can trust yourself not to add to his pangs."

The sobs shake her slender figure as she lies on Denise's sorrowing
heart. Oh, what can he say to li