home to be consulted, and she
does not wish to blunder or to annoy him. She wins Marcia's favor to a
certain extent, but her favor is the most unreliable gift of the gods.
She has no mind of her own, but is continually picking up ready-made
characteristics of her neighbors and trying them on as one would a
bonnet, and with about the same success. While the rest of her small
world is painfully aware of her inconsistency, she prides herself upon
a wide range of mental acquirements. She generously allows Violet to
try driving Dolly, who is as gentle as a lamb.

Violet draws some delicious breaths, when she feels quite like a bird,
but she does not know that it is freedom. She hardly misses Mr.
Grandon, who seems to be up at the factory or down to the city nearly
all the time. The piano stands open, daring innovation, and she plays
for hours, to Cecil's entrancement, and inducts her in the steps of a
fascinating little dance. Cecil is growing quite wild and wilful at
times, but she is always charming.

They all go up to the cottage one day to a lunch of Denise's preparing.
While Gertrude rests, Marcia insists upon visiting the place where
Cecil was rescued.

"You dear, brave child!" she cries, kissing Violet with rapture, "I
don't wonder Floyd fell in love with you on the spot! If you could only
pose just that way to me, and I could paint it! What a picture it would
be for exhibition!"

Violet flushes warmly, but by this time she shares the family distrust
of Marcia's splendid endeavors.

"Oh," Cecil whispers, clinging tightly to her hand and shuddering with
awe, "if I had fallen down over all those jagged rocks! I shall always,
always love you dearly; papa said I must."

How like a dream that far-off day appears!

There is a bit of wood fire burning on the hearth when they return, for
Violet remembers that Gertrude is always cold. The table is simple and
yet exquisite. Marcia is crazed with the china and some silver spoons
that date to antiquity or the first silversmiths.

"If I had money," she begins, when her appetite is a little sated,--"if
I had money I should have a house of my own, kept just to my fancy,
with an old French servant like Denise, only"--glancing around--"it
must be severely artistic. It is so hard that women cannot make
fortunes!" with a long sigh.

"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who
is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.

"