g voice, that,
somehow, she has found again. "There shall be no disturbance on my
account! Eugene did not tell me until I compelled him, it was some one
else. I think you have wronged him in your mind. He was kind, tender,
brotherly."

"Whom then?" he demands, in a tone that terrifies her, and she sways
like a lily.

"It was Marcia; she was vexed about something, but you will forgive
her. And Denise told me about Mr. Wilmarth--in all honor to you. She
adores you. And, I could not remain blind, there were many things. But
I do not want to be free, indeed I do not. I will be content"; and she
gives a long, heart-breaking sob.

"My poor child! my little darling!" and his arms enclose her with a
fond clasp, though her face is still hidden. It is so easy to go
through a labyrinth with a clew. This is what Eugene's fondness meant,
and he forgives him much. This is why she has grown grave and cold and
retiring! He is back again with her dying father--has he kept faith?
She has been his wife, it is true, but was there not a higher meaning
in the bond? Her heart beats against his like some prisoned bird. She
is so near--are they to be kept asunder all their lives? If she did not
love Eugene, may she not learn to love him?

"You said I could not love you," he cries. "How do you know, who told
you? Is your wisdom of so blind a quality?" and he raises the face full
of tears, that shrinks from being seen with all its secrets written in
a burning blush.

"Violet! Violet! are we both to blame? Is there not some certainty when
people love each other?" He bends his face to hers, and kisses into the
lips the sweet and sacred knowledge that electrifies her, that seems to
rend the horizon of remembrance with a flash. Out there on the porch in
that first entrancing waltz he half told his secret, that he had begun
to love her! The knowledge comes with a thrill of exultation.

"I think you love me a little," he says, "but, Violet, I want no
grateful, gentle, passive regard. I must have my wife sweet, fond,
adoring! Am I not as worthy of love as other men?"

She raises her face and they glance steadily into each other's eyes,
then hers droop under the stronger and more imperious will, the lip
quivers, the flush deepens.

"If you will--be glad--to have me love you," she murmurs, brokenly.

"Glad!" And the tone tells the rest.

He brings her back to the seat where they were so cold and grave a
brief while ago. Is there any need of e