thought that would occur to her. She is a little afraid he
suspects Eugene, but there never will be any cause again. She will not
rest until she sees him devoted to Miss Murray. She can make no
confidence, so she kisses Cecil, and begins to take some roses from her
hair with untender fingers and the nervousness that confesses her ill
at ease.

Floyd Grandon walks over to the window. For perhaps the first time in
his life he is swayed by a purely barbaric element. Men beat or shoot
or stab their wives under the dominion of such a passion! He is almost
tempted to fly down-stairs and confront Eugene and have it out with
him. To go at this fragile little wraith, who is now pale as a
snow-drop, would be too unmanly. He holds himself firmly in hand, and
the tornado of jealousy sweeps over him. Why has he never experienced
it before? Can it be that he has come to love her so supremely? His
brain seems to swim around, he drops into the chair and gives a gasp
for breath at this strange revelation. Yes, he loves her, and she would
be happier with Eugene! He has marred the life he meant to shield with
so much tenderness.

When his passion is spent an utter humiliation succeeds. He is ashamed
at his time of life of giving way to any emotion so strongly; he has
clipped and controlled himself, governed and suppressed rigorously, and
in a moment all the barriers have been swept away. Is this the high and
fine honor on which he has so prided himself?

Some other steps are coming up the stairs. There is a little lingering
good night, a parting of the ways, and Eugene goes to his room. What is
there in this false, handsome face that can so move the hearts of both
these women? Does Violet fancy herself beloved, the victim of a cruel
fate? Does Pauline Murray believe she is going to happy wifehood when
her husband-elect secretly desires another?

Floyd Grandon sits there until past midnight. Violet has breathed her
patient, tender, penitent prayer, wept a few dreary tears, and fallen
asleep. She looks hardly more than a child, and he could pity her if he
did not love her so much, but in its very newness his love is cruel. It
is not him for whom she secretly sighs, but another. And a dim wonder
comes to his inmost soul--did ever any woman longing, and being denied,
suffer this exquisite torture?

The world looks different in the flood of morning sunshine. Mr.
Murray's cheery, inspiriting tones are heard in the hall below, Cecil's
bird