ghten her grief? His inmost soul aches
for her.

"Violet!" He takes her hand in his.

"I will try," she responds, brokenly. "But he is all I have; all,"
drearily.

"Do you want to see him?"

She makes an effort to repress her sobs. "Denise," she says, "walk in
the garden awhile with me. It was so sudden. I shall always shudder at
the sound of that man's voice, as if he had indeed announced papa's
death warrant."

If Floyd Grandon had not resolved before, he resolves now. He goes
back, taking with him the scrap of paper. After reading it, St. Vincent
hands it to him. The gist of it all is that to-morrow at ten Wilmarth
will come with a lawyer to sign the contracts he spoke of yesterday,
and hopes to find Miss Violet prepared.

"There was no agreement," says St. Vincent, feebly. "I cannot give him
my darling unless she consents. It is not that we love our children
less, Mr. Grandon, that we endeavor to establish their future, but
because we know how hard the world is. And of the two, I will trust
you."

His breath is all gone. Floyd fans him and gives him the drops again.

Half an hour afterward Violet comes into the room, so wan and changed
that yesterday seems a month ago. It is a scene of heart-breaking
pathos at first, but she nerves herself and summons all her fortitude.
It must be so, if she is to stay there.

St. Vincent dozes off again when the passion is a little spent. He
grows frailer, the skin is waxen white, and the eyes more deeply
sunken. All that is to be of any avail must be done quickly, if St.
Vincent is to die in peace as regards his child.

What if he and Cecil were at just this pass! What if he lay dying and
her future not assured? These people are not kith and kin of his that
he need feel so anxious, neither are they friends of long standing.
Then he sees the lithe figure again, stepping from crag to crag,
holding out its girlish arms, with a brave, undoubting faith, and
clasping Cecil. Yes, it is through her endeavor that his child is not
marred and crushed, even if the great question of life is put aside.
Does he not owe _her_ something?

She raises her head presently. Denise is sitting over by the window,
Grandon nearer. "Is it true?" she asks, tearless now and sadly
bewildered, all the pathos of desolation in her young voice,--"is it
true? He has always been so pale and thin, and how could I dream--oh,
he _will_ get well again! He was so ill in Canada, you know, Denise?"

And ye