There is another for her in the
night if she is restless."

He goes up over the winding stairs with a curious sensation. She lies
there asleep, one arm thrown partly over her head, the soft white
sleeve framing in the fair hair that glitters as if powdered with
diamond-dust. The face is so piquant, so brave, daring, seductive, with
its dimples and its smiling mouth, albeit rather pale. His stern, tense
look softens. She is sweet enough for any man to love: she has ten
times the sense of Marcia, the strength and spirit of Gertrude, and
none of the selfishness of Laura. She is pretty, too, the kind of
prettiness that does not awe or stir deeply or _command_ worship. What
is it--and an old couplet half evades him--

"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food."

That just expresses her. What with the writing and the business, he has
had so little time for her, but henceforth she shall be his delight. He
will devote himself to her pleasure. Proper or not, she shall go to the
city and see the gayety, hear concerts and operas and plays, even if
they have to go in disguise. But how to give her her true position at
home puzzles him sorely. He had meant to introduce her at these coming
parties, but of course that is quite out of the question.

Denise comes up presently, the kindly friend, the respectful domestic,
and takes a low seat when Mr. Grandon insists upon her remaining
awhile. Something in her curious Old World reverence always touches
him. He asks about Violet's childhood, whatever she remembers. The
mother she never saw; but she has been with the St. Vincents thirteen
years. They lived in Quebec for more than half that time; then Mr. St.
Vincent was abroad for two years, and Miss Violet went to the convent.
Denise is a faithful Romanist, but she has always honored her master's
faith,--perhaps because he has been so generous to hers.

There is some tea on the kitchen stove keeping warm, she tells him with
her good night, some biscuits and crackers, and a bottle of wine, if he
likes better. Then he is left alone, and presently the great clock in
the hall tells off slowly and reverently the midnight hour.

Violet stirs and opens her eyes. There is a light, and Mr. Grandon is
sitting here. What does it all mean? Her face flushes and she gives a
sudden start, half rising, and then drops back on the pillow, many
shades paler.

"I know now," she cries. "You came back to stay with me?"