esire, and no ambition for business. But whatever he does, it is now
in my power to settle my father's estate, and I shall be glad to do
it."

There is a discernible hardness in his voice. She seems to shrink a
little from him, and he feels strangely resentful.

Mrs. Grandon has a talk with her son before he goes. The new firm have
made her an offer to pay down a certain amount, or, if she insists, the
stated income shall be kept for the present.

"I certainly should take their offer," says Floyd. "Your income will
not be as large, but on the one hand it would die with you, and on the
other you are more independent. I will add to it ten thousand dollars."

"You are very kind," she says, with a touch of gratitude. "But Eugene
will be thrown out of business, and your father _did_ hope it would
remain in the family. He was so proud of his standing."

"I have counselled and besought Eugene, and it is pouring water in a
sieve."

"He should have married Violet," she says, in a tone that avenges
madame. "If you had waited----"

Floyd is deathly pale for an instant. If he _had_ waited. If this
useless money could belong to Eugene.

"You will be ready this afternoon," and he leaves the room.

Has he defrauded his brother? He could have held out a hope to the
dying man and temporized. As his ward, Eugene might have come to admire
her, or been tempted by the fortune. He hates himself that he can put
her in any scale with mere money, and yet, does she not care for
Eugene? What has the varying moods of the last six weeks meant, if not
that? What the little interchange of glances last night? Curiously
enough, Mr. Murray is quite taken with Eugene. Perhaps the elder
brother does not do full justice to the fascinations of the younger.
Has he been too tried and vexed and suspected, until his whole nature
is warped and soured? Perhaps he is unfit for civilization, for
domestic life in the realms of culture and fashion, and he wishes with
much bitterness of spirit that he was back in his congenial wilds and
deserts.

Violet is waiting for him, attired faultlessly. She looks pale and
troubled, he can see that, and the sweet, frank expression with which
she has always challenged his glance is no longer there. It is not
altogether suspicion, but she really _does_ evade his glance. She has
the miserable secret of a third person, that, if known, might work
incalculable harm, and she must keep it sacred. Beside, she is training
her