nd feels at home, smiles,
blossoms, and surprises herself at her gift of adaptiveness.

The lunch is simple and informal; the men retire to Mr. Latimer's den
to smoke and take counsel. Floyd discusses his literary plans and
receives much encouragement. There are three small children in the
nursery, and thither the ladies find their way. Violet charms them all;
even the baby stretches out his hands to come to her. They talk of
Cecil, and Mrs. Latimer, by some magic known to herself, draws out of
Violet a deliciously naive confession of that romantic episode when she
first saw Mr. Grandon.

"Cecil is so rarely beautiful," she says, with the most perfect
admiration. "She might not have been killed,--I really do not think she
would have been,--but I can understand how terribly Mr. Grandon would
hate to have her marred or disfigured in any way. She has the most
perfect complexion, and no sun or wind seems to injure it. And you
cannot think what an apt pupil she is in music; she plays some
exercises very cunningly already, and she is learning French
sentences."

Violet's face is a study of delight, of unselfish affection. Mrs.
Latimer bends over and kisses her, and Violet clasps her arms about the
other's neck.

"You play," she says, presently. "Do you sing any? Come down and try my
piano; it is a new upright, and very fine tone."

"I do not sing many of the pretty new songs," says Violet, modestly,
"nor Italian. My music and my German teacher was the same person and a
German. He liked the old Latin hymns."

She plays without any special entreaty, and plays more than simply
well, with taste, feeling, and correctness. You can see that she loves
the really fine and impassioned in music, that show and dash have had
no place in her training. She sings very sweetly with a mezzo-soprano
voice that is clear and tender.

"You need never be afraid to play or sing," is Mrs. Latimer's quiet
verdict; and though Violet does not specially regard the commendation
now, it is afterward of great comfort.

"You are going to the opera on Thursday night," she begins, suddenly,
for it has just entered her mind. "What have you ever heard?"

"Nothing," answers Violet, simply. "Mr. Grandon took me to see 'Romeo
and Juliet.'" And she gives a little sigh to the sweet, sad memory.

"And the opera is 'Lohengrin'! I think we must go, I should so like to
see _you_. I will ask Mr. Latimer to get tickets, and we must be
together."

"Oh, if you