ear her young mistress utter that in such a
soul-rending tone, her heart would break.

Grandon meanwhile ponders the future, _their_ future. He has had one
impulse of the heroically sentimental order, a possible freedom for
Violet in the years to come, while she is still young, and a chance
with life and fortune to retrieve the mistake into which she was
hurried through no fault of her own. Would it be a violation of the
divine law? This is not a usual case. She has clearly been defrauded of
a great right. Can he restore it to her? If she were poor and
dependent, he could give her so much she would hardly miss the other.

He is angry that Eugene and Pauline should flaunt their happiness in
her sad eyes. For they have grown very sad. She goes clad in lovely
soft raiment now, yet he can recall the little girl in her gray gown,
holding up her arms with strength and courage to save Cecil from
disaster. He smiles as he calls up the flash in the spirited eyes, as
she said, with true motherly instinct, "You shall not scold her!" If
the eyes would only flash again!

When he remembers this he cannot relinquish her. It would take too much
out of his life. He could not see any other man win her, even if the
law made her free. He should hate to think of other lips kissing her
with lover's kisses. Ah, he is selfish, jealous still, a man among men,
no more generous, just as eager to quaff the beaker of love as any
other. Since she is his, he will not give her up. But to keep her in
this cold, passive fashion, to have her gentle, obedient, affectionate,
when he knows she has a woman's fond, warm soul!

Would a separation awake any longing, any desire? This is one reason
why he entertains the plan of the six weeks abroad, yet it is horribly
awkward to discuss it with her. Still, it must be done.

It is a rainy Sunday afternoon, and he roams about the house unquietly.
Mr. Murray has gone to his partner's, Mrs. Grandon is with Laura, the
lovers are in the drawing-room, with Violet at the far end playing
propriety. Does it hurt her, he wonders, to have Eugene so foolishly
fond of another?

He catches up Cecil, who is running through the hall, and carries her
out to the conservatory, where she culls flowers at her own sweet will.
"This is for Polly, this for Eugene, and this for mamma."

"Cecil," he asks, suddenly, "have you forgotten Auntie Dora, and Lily
and Fen and Lulu? Do you never want to see them?"

"Will they come here?" s