arge-hearted
professor, for instance--he could see her daily without one covetous
pang. He likes her very, very much, she is dear to him, but he is not
in love, and he rather exults in being so cool-headed. Is it anything
but a wild dream, soon burned out to ashes?

Madame Lepelletier, in the solitude of her room, studies her superb
figure, with its rich and affluent lines. No mere beauty of pink
cheeks, dimples, of seventeen, can compare with it, and she understands
the art of keeping it fresh and perfect for some years to come at
least. Floyd Grandon is just beginning a career that will delight and
satisfy him beyond anything he dreams of to-night. He is not in love
with his wife; he did not want her fortune, there were others already
made at hand. A foolish pity, the remnant of youth, moved him, and some
day he will look back in amazement at his folly. But all the same he
has put a slight upon her preference, shown to him, but not in any wise
confessed. She has no silly sentiment, neither would she cloud her
position for a prince of the blood royal, or what is saying more, for
the man she _could_ love, but society has devious turns and varying
latitudes. One need not run squarely against the small fences it puts
up, to gain satisfaction.

Prof. Freilgrath comes up home with his friend the next morning. There
are some dates to verify, some designs to decide upon, but he will not
remain to luncheon. Grandon steps out to greet Denise, when the
opposite door opens, and two quaint laughing figures appear. Violet is
wrapped in her shepherd's plaid, the corner twisted into a bewitching
hood and surmounted by a cluster of black ribbon bows. She holds Cecil
by the hand, who looks a veritable Red Ridinghood, tempting enough to
ensnare any wolf. Both are bright and vivid, and have a fresh,
blown-about look that walking in the wind invariably imparts. Cecil
springs into his arms, and still holding her he bends to kiss Violet.

"You have not walked up?" he asks, in surprise.

"It was not very far, and it is such a lovely, glowing morning," Violet
says, with a touch of deprecation.

"We ran," cries Cecil, with her exuberant spirits in her tone. "We ran
races, and I beat! And we played a wolf was coming. Mamma has seen real
wolves in Canada. But if we had a pony carriage,--because Aunt Marcia
is stingy sometimes----"

"O Cecil!" interposes Violet, in distress.

"Would you like one, Violet? You could soon learn to drive," an