is
paramount and right. There is no appeal from his judgment, so far as
others are concerned, though she reserves little rights for herself.
Gertrude is very much married already; the stronger will has captured
the weaker. She can admire the professor with out stint, so there is
nothing to militate against her regard.

Violet always comes back to Polly. The naive, wondering eyes, the soft,
sweet lips abloom with kisses, the limpid, purling voice that goes
through pleasant meadows, shaded woods, little interruptions of stones
and snags and dead grasses of yesterday that must be swept away, over
cascades laughingly, dripping sweetness, and never seeming to settle.
She calls upon Violet to see faults in Eugene--"for I know he is not
perfect," she says, with her pretty worldly wise air; and when Violet
has timidly ventured to agree, she proceeds to demolish and explain
away such a monstrous fancy!

Mr. Murray declares every day that he must send Polly to Baltimore, but
instead Polly goes to the city and buys ravishing fall costumes, and
Violet pleads to have her stay. Mr. Haviland purchases a house in the
park and brings his family, a wife and two sisters and six children,
and the two ladies have to be amiable to them. Polly, Violet, and
Eugene visit every house that is even suggested as for sale, and make
wonderful plans.

Not that Eugene is in the house from "early morn till dewy eve." He
develops quite a business capacity, and can follow a strong lead
excellently. He is no longer tossed to and fro by Wilmarth's sneers and
innuendoes, or bracing himself to fight against what he considers
Floyd's inexperience. Mr. Murray belongs to the wise children of this
world, and possesses the secret of suavity, good-humor, and judicious
commendation. Already he is an immense favorite in the factory, and the
men are willing to run at his slightest beck. Eugene makes himself
useful in many ways with the books and correspondence.

By the time Floyd is at liberty, Violet seems to have settled into a
placid routine, and it is youth with kindred youth. Floyd is nearly
twice her age, he remembers with dismay, but he does not feel old; on
the contrary, it seems as if he could begin life with fresh zest.
Neither would he have her emerge too rapidly from youth's enchanting
realm. Only--and the word shadows so wide a space--can he do anything
to make good the birthright he has unwittingly taken? She is rich,
accomplished, and pretty, wort