is
so anxious to attend some great gathering at Berlin. If they do go I
must give a little farewell dinner, and _we_," with a gay laugh, "will
be up on exhibition, as widows of that indigenous plant having a
tubular stem, simple leaves, and secondary color."

Polly laughs with bewitching humor and heartiness.

It is well for Violet that of late she has been trained in a Spartan
school. Last summer her flower-like face would have betrayed her in its
changing tints. Now she steadies her voice, though she must answer at
random.

"He has not quite decided, I think."

"It would be a nice little run for them, though I have made John
promise to be back by Christmas."

All the afternoon Violet ponders this in a sore, bewildered state. She
has enough wifely pride to be hurt at the lack of confidence. Once he
said when the cares of business were over they two would have a
holiday. Will he ever desire one with her?

That evening Cecil climbs upon her lap and puts her soft arms about
Violet's neck, and she presses the child in a long, passionate embrace.

"Oh, why do you hug me so tightly?" Cecil cries, with a touch of
wilfulness.

The hands suddenly unclasp. Is her love to prove a burthen even here?
Does no one want it?

"Mamma----" Cecil bends down to kiss her. "O mamma, are you crying?
Don't cry, sweetest." She has caught this from the lovers. "Oh, you
know I love you--better than anybody!"

The ambiguity is almost like a stab. The child has told the truth
unwittingly. Violet is like a person drowning in a wide dreary ocean,
when some stray spar floats thitherward. It is not a promise of rescue,
yet despair clutches it.

"Not better than--papa?" Then a mortal shame crimsons her face and she
despises herself.

Cecil draws a long, quivering breath. "I _did_ love papa best," she
whispers, "but now----"

"No, you must still love him best," Violet cries, in all the agony of
renunciation.

"But who will love you best?" she asks, innocently. "Mamma, I shall
love you best until I grow to be a big lady and have a lover like
Polly. Then you know I shall have to care for him!"

Is her best of all love to come from a child not of her own blood,
instead of the husband of her vows?

"Yes," Violet answers, in a strange, mirthless tone, while there is a
smile on her dry lips. "You must care for him so much that he cannot
help loving you. Oh, my darling, the only joy of all this dreary world
is love!"

If Denise could h