aw,
and says frankly to intimates,--

"Floyd's marriage always will be a great disappointment to me. She is
such a child, just a fit companion for Cecil!"

When Floyd watches her in his questioning way her sweet face brightens
and her soft brown eyes glow with delight.

"I wonder if you are happy?" he says this evening when they are alone.

"Happy?"

He reads it in her eyes, her voice, in the exultation visible in every
feature.

"You are a little jewel, Violet," he replies, tenderly, drawing her
nearer and pressing the soft cheek with the palm of his hand, which is
almost as soft. "I have been so much engrossed that I am afraid I
sometimes neglect you, but never designedly, my darling."

"I know you are very busy," she makes answer, in her cheerful voice,
"and I am not a silly child."

He wonders if there is such a thing as her being too sensible, too
self-denying! While he could not now take life on the old terms and be
tormented daily and hourly by foolish caprices, is there not some
middle ground for youth? Are there too many years between them!

"Your birthday will be in June," he says,--he has travelled that far
already,--"and you must have a birthday ball."

"And you will dance with me?" she gently reminds, as she slips her arm
over his shoulder caressingly.

"Regardless of the figure I shall cut!" and he laughs.

"Oh, but you know you have a handsome figure!"

"And I must do my dancing before I get too stout. Well, yes, I shall be
your _first_ partner."

"Oh, am I to dance with any one else?" she asks, in a faint tone of
surprise.

"Why--yes--quadrilles, I believe, are admissible."

"I wish we had some music, we might waltz anytime," and she pats her
little foot on the floor; "just you and I together."

"Well, I shall have to buy a music-box, and we can dance out on the
lawn after the manner of the German and French peasants."

She gives such a lovely, rippling laugh that he indulges in a still
fonder squeeze. It is very pleasant to have her. That is as far as
Floyd Grandon has yet gone.

"But from now to then," he asks, "what can you find to amuse yourself
with?"

"To amuse myself?" she asks, rather puzzled. "Why, you are not going
away?" and she grasps his arm tightly.

"Going away! No." She _would_ miss him then; but, he reflects, there is
no one else for companionship. Marcia somehow is not congenial, and
Eugene--how much company a pleasant young fellow like Eugene might
prove.