ribbon is fastened about her waist,
and a knot at her throat. She looks so small, so lovely, that he
gathers her in his arms.

"My little darling," he begins, in a voice of infinite tenderness, "I
seem to neglect you sadly, but there are so many things."

"Do not mind," she answers, softly. "I am quite used to being alone. I
missed Cecil very much, though," and her sweet lip quivers. "Oh, are
you quite sure, quite satisfied that I can do my duty toward her? I
never had a mother of my own to remember, but I will be very good and
kind. I love children, and she is so sweet."

"My little girl, you are a child yourself. As the years go on you and
Cecil will be more like sisters, companions; and I hope you will always
be friends. I must take you home," he continues, abruptly. "My mother
and one sister are there; all the rest are away."

She shivers a little. "Am I to live there?" she asks, timidly. She has
been thinking how altogether lovely it would be to have him and Cecil
here.

"Why, of course. You belong to me now."

He means it for a touch of pleasant intimacy, but she seems to shrink
away. In that old time--the brief year--caresses and attention were
continually demanded. This new wife does not even meet him half way,
and he feels awkward. He can be fond enough of Cecil, and is never at a
loss, but this ground is so new that he is inclined to pick his way
carefully, with a feeling that she is not at all like any one he has
ever known.

They are walking back to the house, and when Denise comes to greet them
she sees that the husband has his arm around his young wife's waist.
Her Old World idea is that the wife should respect the husband to a
point of wholesome fear. They are certainly doing very well. She feels
so proud of this great, grave man, with his broad shoulders, his
flowing brown beard, his decisive eye, and general air of command.

"Have you had any dinner or lunch?" Violet says, suddenly, moved with a
new sense of care.

"Yes. But I think we will have a glass of wine and--Have you eaten
anything?"

She colors a little. "No," says Denise. "She doesn't eat enough to keep
a cricket alive."

"Then we must have some dinner. Denise will get it. Would you like to
come up-stairs with me?"

He has brought home a few papers to put in her father's desk. On the
threshold he pauses. The room is in perfect order. The snowy bed, the
spotless toilet-table, the clean towels on the rack, with their curious
mon