his own--that she loved him even as he
loved her.

A great wave of thankfulness, of sacred joy, swept over his soul, only
to be followed by a feeling of despair, darker and deeper than any he
had yet experienced, for he knew that he should not, must not accept the
priceless boon of her love which she had so freely and so artlessly
yielded to him.

But there was no time for explanations, for at that moment the door was
opened again, and the woman, Mrs. Keen, whom Violet had met when she
first came, entered, to make some inquiry of Wallace, and to tell him
that the clergyman had arrived.

Presently others, neighbors and acquaintances, began to gather, and then
it was time for the service.

Violet never forgot that simple ceremony, for the clergyman, who knew
Mrs. Richardson intimately, seemed to glorify the death of the beautiful
woman.

"She had simply stepped," he said, "from darkness into light--from toil
and care into rest and peace. The vail betwixt her and the Master, whom
she had loved, was lifted; her hitherto fettered soul was free, and in
the light of an eternal day no earthly sorrow, doubt, or trial could
reach her."

Death, after that, never seemed the cruel enemy that it had previously
seemed to Violet.

After it was all over, and Wallace had passed out to his carriage, Mrs.
Keen came to the young girl and asked her if she would like to follow
her friend to the cemetery.

"If I may," Violet replied. "She was not a relative, but I loved her
very much."

"Then come with me," the woman said, and, as she led the way out, she
explained that there were no relatives save Mr. Richardson, and it
seemed too bad that there should be no one but himself to follow his
mother to the grave, and that was why she had asked Violet to go with
her.

The next moment Violet found herself in the carriage with, and seated
opposite to, Wallace.

A feeling of dismay took possession of her, for she knew that the world
would criticise her severely for taking such a step.

She had not dreamed that she would have to ride in the same carriage
with Wallace, and she wondered if he would understand how it had
happened.

The matter could not be helped now, however, and for herself she did not
care; her motives had been good and pure; why then need she care for the
criticisms of people?

The ride to Spring Grove Cemetery was a long and sad one, for scarcely a
word was spoken either going or returning. Wallace seemed absorbed