he was
naturally gentle and affectionate, and, where principle was not at
stake, she would yield a point rather than create dissension.
Occasionally, however, there would arise a question of conscience, and
then she had shown the "grit" and "will of iron" of which Mr. Mencke had
spoken.

Mrs. Mencke arose as she made her last remark, and Violet, fearing to be
found eavesdropping, sped noiselessly on into the library, where she
secured her book and letter; then fleeing by a door opposite the one she
had entered, and up a back stair-way, she reached her own room without
exciting the suspicion of any one that she had overheard the plot
concerning her.

Locking herself in, she sat down at once and wrote all that she had
overheard to Wallace, telling him that she should certainly grieve
herself to death if she was immured in a convent, and asking him what
she should do in this emergency.

She informed him that she should take a German lesson at three the next
afternoon, and begged him to meet her in the pupils' reception-parlor of
the institute at four o'clock.

She was so wrought up that she could not sleep, and tossed restlessly
most of the night, while she wondered why Belle and Wilhelm were so
cruel to her, and what the secret was to which Belle had referred; she
had not, until then, been aware that there was anything mysterious
connected with their family history.

She arose very early the next morning, and stole forth to post her
letter, long before any of the household were astir, after which she
crept back to bed and fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber, which lasted
until late in the forenoon.

Wallace received Violet's letter by the morning post, and was greatly
exercised over it.

At four o'clock precisely he entered the pupils' reception-room at the
institute where Violet took German lessons, and was thankful to find no
one there before him.

Presently Violet entered, looking pale and unhappy. She sprang toward
her lover, and laid two small hot hands in his, while she lifted a pair
of sad, appealing eyes to him.

"What shall I do, Wallace?" she cried, with quivering lips. "I will not
go to Montreal, and yet I know they are determined to make me."

"Your sister or her husband has no right to insist upon your going into
a convent, if you do not wish to do so," Wallace returned, gravely.

"But they are my guardians; I have no other home, no other friends; they
have the care of my money and I have to g