"Perhaps it is Denise."

"It is cream, I know," announces Cecil. Denise's variety of creams is
inexhaustible.

Grandon smiles again, a sort of good-humored, noncommittal smile.

It is something that pleases him very much, Violet decides, and a
delicious interest brightens every feature.

Denise welcomes them gladly. Lindmeyer has taken up his lodgings at the
cottage, but the upper rooms are kept just the same. Grandon leads the
way and Violet stares at the boxes in the hall. Her room is in a lovely
tumult of disorder. Bed and chairs are strewn with feminine belongings.

"Oh," she says, uttering a soft, grateful cry. "They have come!
But--there is so much!" And she looks at him in amazement.

"It is not so bad, after all," he answers, touching the soft garments
with his fingers, and studying her. There is a lovely dead silk, with
only a very slight garniture of crape; there is the tenderest gray,
that looks like a pathetic sigh, and two or three in black, that have
the air of youth, an indescribable style that only an artist could
give. But the white ones are marvels. One has deep heliotrope ribbons,
and another crapy material seems almost alive. There are plain mulls,
with wide hems, there are gloves and sashes and wraith-like plaitings
of tulle; a pretty, dainty bonnet and a black chip hat, simple and
graceful. Madame Vauban has certainly taken into account youth,
bridehood, and the husband's wishes. Plain they are, perhaps their
chief beauty lies in their not being overloaded with trimming and
ornament.

"Oh," she says, "whenever am I to wear them all?" Her black dress has
done mourning duty so far, but the summer heats have rendered white
much more comfortable. "They are so very, very lovely!"

Her eyes glisten and her breath comes rapidly. He can see her very
heart beat, and a faint scarlet flies up in her face, growing deeper
and deeper, as the sweet red lips tremble.

"You bought them?" she falters, in an agony of shame.

"Should you hate to owe that much to me?" he questions.

"I----"

"My dear girl--Tell her, Denise, that she is quite an heiress, and that
if all goes well she will one day be very rich. It is your father's
gift to you, Violet, not mine."

The troublesome scarlet dies away. She comes to him and takes his hand
in her soft palms. "I would be willing to owe anything to you," she
says, "but----"

"I owe you the greatest of all; a debt I never can repay, remember
that, _always_." And