etter.

"No, a thousand times _no_! Bore me no more with the folly!"

Floyd's face burns as he thrusts it in Denise's stove to consume.

"Have you heard?" St. Vincent asks, as he enters the room.

"Yes." The tone acknowledges the rest.

"It is all vain, useless, then! Young people are not trained to pay
heed to the advice of their elders. My poor, poor Violet!"

The utter despair touches Grandon. He has ceased to fight even for his
child.

What impulse governs Grandon he cannot tell then or ever. It may be
pity, sympathy, the knowledge that he can fight Violet's battle, insure
her prosperity in any case, protect her, and give her happiness, and
smooth the way for the dying. Of himself he does not think at all,
strangely enough, and he forgets madame as entirely as if she never
existed.

"Will you give her to me as my wife?" he asks, in a slow, distinct
tone. "I am older, graver, and have a child."

The light that overflows the dying eyes is his reward. It is something
greater than joy; it is trust, relief, satisfaction, gratitude intense
and heartfelt. Then it slowly changes.

"It is taking an advantage of your generosity," he answers, with a
voice in which the anguish cannot be hidden. "No, I will not be so
selfish when you have been all that is manly, a friend since the first
moment----"

A light tap is heard and the door opens. Violet comes in, dressed in
clinging white, her eyes heavy, her sweet face filled with awe.

Grandon takes her cold hand in his and leads her to the bed. "Violet,"
he begins, with unsmiling tenderness, "will you take me for your
husband, your friend, your protector?"

Violet has been instructed in some of the duties of womanhood. Marriage
is a holy sacrament to be entered into with her father's consent and
approval. She looks at him gravely, questioningly.

"I am much older than you, I have many cares and duties to occupy and
perplex me, and I have a little girl----"

Violet's face blooms with a sudden radiance as she lifts her innocent
eyes, lovely with hope.

"I like her so much," she says. "I am not very wise, but I could train
her and take care of her if you would trust me."

He smiles then. "I trust you in that and in all things," he makes
answer. It is as if he were adopting her.

She carries his hand gravely to her lips without considering the
propriety. She feels so peaceful, so entirely at rest.

"Heaven will bless you," St. Vincent cries. "It must, it must! Vi