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THE DOUGLAS NOVELS

POPULAR EDITION

By Amanda M. Douglas Cloth New uniform binding Per volume $1.00

BETHIA WRAY'S NEW NAME
THE HEIR OF BRADLEY HOUSE
OSBORNE OF ARROCHAR
CLAUDIA
FROM HAND TO MOUTH
HOME NOOK
HOPE MILLS
IN TRUST
WHOM KATHIE MARRIED
THE FORTUNES OF THE FARADAYS
LOST IN A GREAT CITY
NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM
OUT OF THE WRECK
STEPHEN DANE
SYDNIE ADRIANCE
IN WILD ROSE TIME
IN THE KING'S COUNTRY
A WOMAN'S INHERITANCE
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR
THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
FOES OF HER HOUSEHOLD
A MODERN ADAM AND EVE IN A GARDEN
SEVEN DAUGHTERS

LEE AND SHEPARD Publishers
BOSTON

FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR

BY

AMANDA M. DOUGLAS

AUTHOR OF
"In Trust," "The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe," Etc.

BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
1899

Copyright,
1883,
By Lee and Shepard.

All rights reserved.

TO

DR. AND MRS. THEO. R. LUFF.

Through silent spaces hands may be outstretched,

Remembrance blossom in dim atmospheres;

Friends are not less the friends though far apart;

They count the loss and gain of vanished years.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.

[ ]

CHAPTER I.

"There is a courtesy of the heart. Is it akin to love?"—Goethe..

It is the perfection of summer, early June, before the roses have shaken off their sweetness, and Grandon Park is lovely enough to compare with places whose beauty is an accretion of centuries rather than the work of decades. Yet these grand old trees and this bluff, with a strata of rock manifest here and there, are much older than the pretty settlement lying at its base. The quaint house of rough, gray stone, with a tower and a high balcony hung out at irregular intervals, the windows and angles and the curious pointed roof, stamp it as something different from the Swiss villas and cottage ornées at its feet.

Not very near, though; there is a spacious lawn and a wide drive, a grove of trees that can shut out intrusive neighbors to the south, as well as another dense thicket northward. There is the road at a distance on one side, and the broad, beautiful river on the other. Down below, a mile, perhaps, a rocky point juts out into the river, up above another, so this forms a kind of indentation, an exclusive sort of bay for the dwellers therein, and the whole rather aristocratic settlement is put down on the railway map as Grandon Park.

But it is at the stone house on its very brow where the master, Floyd Grandon, is expected home to-day after years of wandering and many changes. In the library his mother and sisters are gathered. It is a favorite place with Gertrude, who spends her days on the sofa reading. Marcia much affects her own "study," up under the eaves, but to-day she is clothed and in her right mind, free from dabs of paint or fingers grimed with charcoal and crayons. Laura is always Laura, a stylish young girl, busy with the strip of an extremely elegant carriage robe, and Mrs. Grandon, a handsome woman past fifty, has a bit of embroidery in her hands. She seems never exactly idle, but now she holds her work and listens, then drops into musing.

"I wonder what can be the matter?" she exclaims presently. "It is full half an hour behind time," looking at her watch.

"Are you in a hurry?" asks a languid voice from the luxurious Turkish lounge.

"Gertrude! How heartless you are! When we have not seen Floyd for seven years!" in a tone of reproach.

"If he were only coming alone——"

"And if we did know whether he is married or not!"

This young, impatient voice is Laura's. Not that it will make any great difference to her.

"We cannot dispossess Floyd," says Marcia, in a queer, caustic tone. "And a new mistress——"

Marcia has a great gift for making people uncomfortable.

"You seem so certain that he has married her," the mother comments in a kind of incredulous impatience.

"Well, he was in love with her before. And now their travelling together, his bringing her here, look wonderfully like it."

"Well, what then? She is rich, handsome, an elegant society woman, and just your age, Gertrude."

That rather stings the pale, listless woman on the lounge, who knows her mother's ambition has been sorely crossed by these single daughters.

"Not quite, mother mine. Even six months is something. She will not be able to twit me with seniority."

"But she may with the fact that she has been twice married," says Marcia.

"I am glad I shall be out of the way of all complications," announces Laura, in a joyous tone. "But for mourning and the miserable lack of money I should have been married sooner."

"Laura! At least you owe some respect to your father's memory!" the mother retorts sharply.

"Nevertheless, I am glad not to be dependent upon Floyd. And, mamma, you surely ought to rejoice at the prospect of having one daughter well married," with a little exultant ring in her voice. She is only eighteen, and has captured both wealth and position, and is longing so ardently to try her new world. These Grandon girls are not particularly amiable with one another. Indeed, life seems to have gone wrong with all of them, and they feel that Floyd alone is to be envied, thanks to great Aunt Marcia.

"There!" the mother exclaims suddenly, then rising, hurries out on the balcony. A carriage has turned into the drive, it sweeps around the gravelled walk with a crunching sound, and the beautiful bays are drawn up at the very edge of the wide stone steps with a masterly hand.

"Here we are!" cries a young man of one or two and twenty. "There was a slight accident to the down train and a detention. And I absolutely did not know Floyd!"

A tall, finely formed man of thirty or so springs out with an elastic step and clasps Mrs. Grandon in his arms. "My dear, dear mother!" is all that is said for a moment, and their lips meet with a tenderness that comforts the mother's heart.

Then he looks a little uncertainly at the two behind her.

"This is Laura, the child when you went away. It is almost nine years since you have seen her. And Marcia."

"How odd to be introduced to your own brother!" laughs Laura. "But, Floyd, you look like a Turkish pasha or an Arabian emir." And she eyes him with undisguised admiration.

Gertrude now crawls slowly out in a long white cashmere robe, with a pale blue fleecy wrap about her shoulders. She looks tall and ghostly, and her brother's heart fills with pity, as he seems more closely drawn to her than to the others.

Then there is a curious little halt, and with one accord they glance toward the carriage. Floyd flushes under all his wealth of bronze.

"Oh," he says, suddenly, "I have brought you an old friend. I could not bear to leave her in a great city among strangers, and promised her a welcome with you. Indeed, I do not believe she has any 'nearer of kin,' after all."

They all take a step forward, still in wonder. Floyd hands her out,—a very elegant woman, who is one handsome and harmonious line, from the French hat down to the faultless kid boot.

"I told Mr. Grandon it would be awkward and out of order," she says in a slow, melodious voice that has a peculiar lingering cadence. "But he is most imperious," and her smile dazzles them. "And you must pardon me for allowing myself to be persuaded. It was so tempting to come among friends."

Clearly she is not his wife now, whatever she may be in the future. Mrs. Grandon draws a breath of relief, and there is a pleasant confusion of welcome.

"Yes, I told her such scruples were foolish," says Floyd, in a straightforward way that is almost abrupt. Then turning to the carriage, adds, "And here is my little English daughter, Cecil!"

"O Floyd! what a lovely child! Does she really belong to you?" And Laura glances from one to the other, then dashes forward and clasps Cecil, who shrinks away and clings to her father.

"She is rather shy," he says, half proudly, half in apology; but Laura, who does not care a fig for children in general, kisses Cecil in spite of resistance. "Mother, I have added to your dignity by bringing home a granddaughter." Then, with a tender inflection, "This is grandmamma, Cecil."

Cecil allows herself to be kissed this time without resistance but she clings tightly to her father.

"What magnificent eyes! true twilight tint, and such hair! Floyd, how odd to think of you as——"

"You are warm and tired," Mrs. Grandon is saying. "Your rooms are ready up-stairs."

"Don't send away the carriage, Eugene," cries Laura, "I want it a little while." Then she follows the small throng up the broad steps and into the spacious hall, while the visitor is keeping up a delicate little conversation with her hostess. Gertrude looks old and faded beside this regal woman. Perhaps she feels it, for she goes back to her couch and her novel.

"Oh," exclaims Eugene, springing up the steps two at a time, "here is Madame Lepelletier's satchel! You left it in the carriage," handing it to her.

They are all relieved to actually hear her name. Laura leads her to the state chamber, which has been put in elegant order for a possible bride. Then her trunk is sent up, and Laura flits about as only a woman can, uttering gracious little sentences, until, finally excusing herself, she runs down to the carriage and is whirled away upon her errand.

Mrs. Grandon has followed her son to his room. He is master of the house and yet he has never been possessor. Almost ten years ago it was being finished and furnished for the splendid woman in the opposite room, and by a strange travesty of fate he has brought her here to-day. But he has no time for retrospection. He hardly hears what his mother is saying as he stands his little girl on a chair by the window and glances out.

"Yes," he returns, rather absently. "It will be all right. How wonderfully lovely this spot is, mother! I had no real conception of it. What would Aunt Marcia say to see it now? It is worthy of being handed down to the third and fourth generation."

"What a pity your child is not a boy, Floyd; you would have nothing more to ask," his mother says, fervently wishing it had been so.

"I would not have Cecil changed," he responds, with almost jealous quickness. "Where is Jane?" and the young girl lingering in the hall presents herself. "We shall just shake off a little of the dust of travel and come down, for I am all curiosity to inspect the place."

"Will this room do for your little girl and her nurse?" asks Mrs. Grandon. "We hardly knew what arrangements to make——"

"Yes, it is all very nice. Our luggage will be up presently; there was too much for us," and he smiles. "What are your household arrangements?"

"Dinner is at six generally. I delayed it awhile to-night, and now I must go and look after it."

"Thank you for all the trouble." He clasps both of his mother's hands in his and kisses her again. He has dreaded his return somewhat, and now he is delighted to be here.

Down-stairs Gertrude and Marcia have had a small skirmish of words.

"So he isn't married," the former had said, triumphantly.

"But engaged, no doubt. He wouldn't bring her here if there was not something in it."

"I would never forgive her for throwing me over," declares Gertrude.

"But it is something to have been a countess, and she is wonderfully handsome, not a bit fagged out by a sea voyage. Why, she doesn't look much older than Laura. Women of that kind always carry all before them, and men forgive everything to them."

"Floyd doesn't look like a marrying man."

"Much you know about it!" says Marcia, contemptuously. Then hearing her mother's steps, she rejoins her in the long dining-room, where the meal is being prepared in a style that befits the handsome mansion. The table is elegant with plate, cut glass, and china. Mrs. Grandon is lighter of heart now that she knows she is not to be deposed immediately. If the child only were a boy there would be no need of Floyd marrying, and it vexes her.

Laura returns in high good-humor, having done her errand quite to her satisfaction. The bell rings and they gather slowly. Madame Lepelletier is more enchanting still in some soft black fabric, with dull gold in relief. Floyd has washed and brushed and freshened, but still wears his travelling suit for a very good reason. Cecil is in white, with pale blue ribbons, which give her a sort of seraphic look. Yet she is tired with all the jaunting about, and after a while Laura ceases to torment her with questions, as the conversation becomes more general.

While the dessert is being brought in, Cecil touches her father's arm gently.

"I am so sleepy," in the lowest of low tones. Indeed, she can hardly keep her lovely eyes open.

"Will you call Miss Cecil's maid?" he says to the waiter, and, kissing her, gives her into Jane's arms.

"How beautifully that child behaves!" says Gertrude, with sudden animation. "I am not fond of children, but I am quite sure I shall like her."

"I hope you will," her brother answers, with a smile.

"Mr. Grandon deserves much credit," rejoins Madame Lepelletier. "Fathers are so apt to indulge, and Cecil is extremely bewitching. Could you really say 'no' to her?" And the lady smiles over to him.

"If it was for her good. But Cecil's aunt must have the credit of her training." Then he goes back to a former subject, and they sit over their dessert until dusk, when they adjourn to the drawing-room opposite, where the lamps are lighted. Gertrude, as usual, takes a couch. Floyd and his mother pair off, and somehow Laura finds herself growing extremely confidential with their elegant guest, who soon helps her to confess that she is on the eve of marriage.

"Of course we had to wait for Floyd to come home," she goes on. "The property has to be settled, and mamma insists that now Floyd is head of the family and all that. But I was engaged before papa died, and we were to have been married in the spring," at which she sighs. "And I do so want to get to Newport before the season is over. But Floyd is something to papa's will—executor, isn't it?—and we cannot have any money until he takes it in hand."

"How long he has been away!" says Madame Lepelletier, with a soft half-sigh. She would like to believe that she had something to do with it, but the English wife stands rather in the way.

"Yes; he was coming home as soon as his little girl was born, but then his wife died and he joined an exploring expedition, and has been rambling about the world ever since, with no bother of anything. How nice it must be to have plenty of money!" And Laura's sigh is in good earnest.

"You are right there," adds Eugene, who is smoking out on the balcony. "Floyd, old chap, is to be envied. I wish I had been Aunt Marcia's pet, or even half favorite. Business is my utter detestation, I admit. I must persuade Floyd to change about."

"And that makes me think of the wonderful changes here. Why, Grandon Park is a perfect marvel of beauty, and I left it an almost wilderness. I should never have known the place. But the location is really magnificent. Ten years have improved it beyond all belief. I suppose there is some very nice society?"

"In the summer, yes, and yet every one is anxious to get away," returns Laura, with a short laugh.

Marcia joins the circle and the harmony seems broken. Madame Lepelletier wonders why they so jar upon each other. She has been trained to society's suavity, and they seem quite like young barbarians.

Floyd and his mother talk a little at the lower end of the room, then she proposes they shall take the library.

"Or better still," says he, "get a shawl and let us have a turn outside. The moon is just coming up."

She obeys with alacrity. They cross the sloping lawn almost down to the river's edge. Floyd lights a cigar, after learning that it will not be disagreeable. He glances up and down the river, flecked here and there with a drowsy sail or broken with the plash of oars. Over on the opposite shore the rugged rocks rise frowningly, then break in depressions, through which clumps of cedars shine black and shadowy. Why, he has not seen much in Europe that can excel this! His heart swells with a sense of possession. For the first time in his life his very soul thrills with a far-reaching, divine sense of home.

"I am so glad to have you at last, Floyd," his mother says again, remembering her own perplexities. "Nothing could be done about the business until you came. Floyd," suddenly, "I hope you will not feel hurt at—at what your father thought best to do. Aunt Marcia provided for you."

"Yes, nobly, generously. If you mean that my father divided the rest among you all, he only did what was right, just."

There is no uncertain ring in the tone, and she is greatly relieved.

"Poor father! I had counted on being a stay to him in his declining years, as I should have returned in any event in another year or two. I should like to have seen him once more."

"He left many messages for you, and there is a packet of instructions that I suppose explains his wishes. You see he did not really think of dying; we all considered him improving until that fatal hemorrhage. The business is left to Eugene. Then there are legacies and incomes,"—with a rather hopeless sigh.

"Don't feel troubled about it, mother dear. I suppose Eugene likes the business?" in a cheery tone.

"No, I am afraid not very well. He is young, you know, and has had no real responsibility. O Floyd, I hope you will be patient with him!"

"To be sure I will." Patience seems a very easy virtue just now. "There is the partner?"

"Yes, Mr. Wilmarth. And a Mr. St. Vincent has an interest, and there is a good deal about machinery that I do not understand——"

"Never mind. Let us talk about the girls. Gertrude looks but poorly. She has never rallied over her unfortunate love."

"I think she always expected to hear something, and would make no effort. She is not really ill. It is only allowing one's self to collapse. She ought to have done better, for she was really beautiful. I thought her prettier than Irene Stanwood in those old days, but no one would fancy her the older now."

Mrs. Grandon feels her way very cautiously. She is not at all sure what her son's relations with this handsome guest are, or may be, and she desires to keep on the safe side.

"Isn't she marvellous?" He stops suddenly in his slow pacing. "When I stumbled over her in Paris she seemed to me like some of the strange old stories of woman blessed with unfading youth. And yet I do not believe she had a really satisfying life with her count and his family. It must have been something else, some rare, secret philosophy. Yet she seemed so sort of friendless in one way, and was coming to America for the settlement of the business, so I thought we might as well have her here for a little while. I wonder if it will annoy you?" he asks quickly.

"Oh, no!" she answers in a careless tone. "You are the only one who would be annoyed."

"My epidermis has thickened since those days," he returns, with a laugh. "What an unlucky lot we were! Gertrude, Marcia, and I, all crossed in our first loves! I hope Laura's fate will be better."

"Laura's prospects are very bright," says the mother, in a kind of exultant tone. "She is engaged to a young man every way unexceptionable, and was to have been married in the spring. She is very anxious now—you see no one can have any money until——"

"I can soon straighten such a bother. When would she like——"

"Mr. Delancy is very impatient now. It would be mortifying to confess that only a matter of wedding clothes stands between, when everything else is desirable."

"Consider that settled then."

"O Floyd! Laura will be so delighted!" There is relief in her tone, as well. A great anxiety has been dispelled.

The bell in the village up above peals off ten, and the still air brings it down with a touch of soft mystery.

"We ought to go back to the house," confesses the mother. "And I dare say you are tired, Floyd?"

"I have had a rather fatiguing day," he admits, though he feels as if he could fling himself down on the fragrant grass and stay there all night. It would not be the first time he has slept under a canopy of stars.

They retrace their steps, and Mrs. Grandon apologizes to her guest, who is sweetness itself, quite different from the Irene Stanwood of the past. There is a stir, and everybody admits that it is time to retire.

Floyd intercepts Laura in the hall, and wonders he has not remarked the flash of the diamond earlier, as she raises her plump hand.

"Mother has been telling me," he says, with a wise, curious smile. "Let me congratulate you. To-morrow we will talk it over and arrange everything. I will be your banker for the present. Only—are you quite sure I shall like the young man?" And he holds her in a tender clasp.

"You cannot help it! O Floyd, how good you are, and how very, very happy it makes me! I began to feel afraid that I had come under the family ban."

"Dismiss all fears." He thinks her a very pretty young girl as she stands there, and he is pleased that his return is bringing forth good fruit so soon.

There is a pleasant confusion of good nights and good wishes, the great hall doors are shut, and they all troop up the wide walnut staircase quite as if an evening party had broken up. Floyd Grandon, though not a demonstrative man, lingers to give his mother a parting kiss, and is glad that he has returned to comfort her.

[ ]

CHAPTER II.

When a woman has ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters not how different she becomes.—W. S. Landor.

The house is still. Every one is shut in with his or her thoughts. Floyd Grandon goes to the bed of his little girl, where Jane sits watching in an uncertain state, since everything is so new and strange.

How lovely the child is! The rosy lips are parted, showing the pearly teeth, the face is a little flushed with warmth, one pale, pink-tinted ear is like a bit of sculpture, the dimpled shoulder, the one dainty bare foot outside the spread, seem parts of a cherub. He presses it softly; he kisses the sweet lips that smile. Is it really the sense of ownership that makes her so dear?

He has never experienced this jealous, overwhelming tenderness for anything human. He loves his mother with all a son's respect, and has a peculiar sympathy for her. If his father were alive he knows they would be good comrades to stand by each other, to have a certain positive faith and honor in each other's integrity. His brother and sisters—well, he has never known them intimately, even as one gets to know friends, but he will take them upon trust. Then there are two women,—the mother of his child, and that affluent, elegant being across the hall. Does his heart warm to her? And yet she might have been mistress here and the mother of his children. The "might have been" in his thought would comfort his mother greatly, who is wondering, as she moves restlessly on her pillow, if it may not yet be.

Floyd Grandon's story comprehends all the rest, so I will give that.

Some sixty years before this, two sturdy Englishmen and their sister had come to the New World, with a good deal of energy and some money. The freak that led them up the river to this place was their love of beautiful scenery. Land was cheap, and at first they tried farming, but presently they started a carpet factory, their old business, and being ingenious men, they made some improvements. Ralph Stanwood, another Englishman, joined them. They placed their business two miles farther up, where there were facilities for docks and the privileges they desired.

William Grandon married, but only one of his children reached maturity. James and his sister Marcia lived in an old farm-house, single, prudent, turning everything into money, and putting it into land. When James died he left his business to his brother and his share of the farm to Marcia. When William died the business went to his son James, except the small share belonging to Stanwood.

James married a stylish young woman who never quite suited Aunt Marcia. They lived in the new village in a pretentious house, and came out now and then to the farm. There were five children, and the second girl was named after the great-aunt, who dowered her with a hundred dollars, to be put in the bank, and a handsome christening robe, then took no further special notice of her.

But she liked Floyd, the eldest son, and he was never weary of roaming about the old place and listening through the long evenings to matters she had known of in England, and places she had seen.

"Aunt Marcia," he said one day, "just up on that ridge would be a splendid place to build a castle. All the stone could be quarried out around here. I wish you'd let me build it when I am a man."

She laughed a little, and took a good survey of the place.

Some days after she questioned her nephew about his plans.

"Bring Eugene up to the business," she said, briefly. "Four will be enough for your purse. I will look after Floyd."

Miss Grandon might be queer and unsocial, but she was no niggard. All the friends of her own day were gone, and she had no gift for making new ones, but her grand-nephew grew into her heart.

His mother watched this with a curious jealousy.

"If she had only taken one of the girls! Marcia ought to belong there."

"Nonsense!" replied her husband. "It would be a dull home for a girl. Let her have Floyd. The lad is fond of her, and she loves him. I never knew her to love one of her own sex."

Floyd was sent to college, but the idea of the castle grew in Aunt Marcia's brain. Towns and villages were spreading up the river, and one day she was offered what seemed a fabulous sum for her old home of rocky woodlands. She was still shrewd, if she had come to fourscore, and offered them half, on her own terms, holding off with the most provoking indifference until they came to an agreement. Then she announced her intention of building a home for Floyd, who was to be her heir.

"The property ought to be yours, James," Mrs. Grandon said, with some bitterness. "Why should she set Floyd above all the rest?"

"My dear,—as if it really made any difference!"

But the mother did look on with a rather jealous eye. Floyd came home, and they discussed plans, viewed every foot of soil, selected the finest spot, had the different kinds of rock examined, and finally discovered the right place for a quarry. There was so much preliminary work that they did not really commence until the ensuing spring, and the foundation only had been laid when Floyd's vacation came around again. Meanwhile, houses below them seemed to spring up as if by magic. The mystery and fame of the "castle" helped. No one knew quite what it was going to be, and the strange old lady intensified the whole.

There was no special haste about it, though Floyd was so interested that he had half a mind to throw up his last year at college, but Aunt Marcia would not agree, and he graduated with honors. Meanwhile the house progressed, and if it did not quite reach the majesty of a castle, it was a very fine, substantial building. Floyd threw himself into the project now with all his energy. They would be quite detached from their neighbors by the little grove Aunt Marcia had left standing. There were walks and drives to build, lawns to lay out, new gardens to plan, but before it was all completed Aunt Marcia, who had been a little ailing for several weeks, dropped suddenly out of life, fondly loved and deeply regretted by her grand-nephew.

Her will showed that she had planned not to have her name perish with her. The house and several acres of ground were to constitute the Grandon estate proper. This was to be used by Floyd during his life and then to descend to his eldest son living. If he left no sons, and Eugene should have a male descendant, he was to be the heir. If neither had sons, it was to go in the female line, provided such heir took the name of Grandon. The rest of the property was left unconditionally to Floyd, with the exception of one thousand dollars apiece to the children.

Floyd was at this period two-and-twenty, a rather grave and reserved young man, with no special predilection for society. And yet, to the great surprise of his mother, Irene Stanwood captured him and rather cruelly flaunted her victory in the faces of all the Grandons. Yet there really could be no objection. She was a handsome, well-educated girl, with some fortune of her own and a considerable to come from her mother.

Mrs. Stanwood and her daughter went abroad, where Floyd was to meet them presently, when whatever they needed for foreign adornment of their house would be selected. They heard of Miss Stanwood being a great success at Paris, her beauty and breeding gaining her much favor. And then, barely six months later, an elegant Parisian count presented a temptation too great to be resisted. Miss Stanwood threw over Floyd Grandon and became Madame la Comtesse.

Essentially honest and true himself, this was a great shock to Floyd Grandon, but he learned afterward that principle and trust had been more severely wounded than love. His regard had been a young man's preference rather than any actual need of loving. Indeed, he was rather shocked to think how soon he did get over the real pain, and how fast his views of life changed.

Meanwhile Gertrude lived out a brief romance. A fascinating lover of good family and standing, a little gay and extravagant, perhaps, but the kind to win a girl's whole soul, and Gertrude gave him every thought. While the wedding day was being considered, a misdeed of such magnitude came to light that the young man was despatched to China with all possible haste to avoid a worse alternative, and Gertrude was left heart-broken. Then Marcia, young and giddy, half compromised herself with an utterly unworthy admirer, and Mrs. Grandon's cup of bitterness was full to overflowing.

Floyd leased his quarry on advantageous terms, and offered to take his mother and two sisters abroad. This certainly was some compensation. Marcia soon forgot her griefs, and even Gertrude was roused to interest. At some German baths the ladies met Madame la Comtesse, and were indebted to her for an act of friendliness. At Paris they met her again, and here Floyd had occasion to ask himself with a little caustic satire if he had really loved her? She had grown handsomer, she was proud of her rank and station and the homage laid at her feet.

The Grandons returned home and took possession of Floyd's house. He went on to Egypt, the Holy Land, and India. He was beginning to take the true measure of his manhood, his needs and aims, to meet and mingle with people who could stir what was best in him, and rouse him to the serious purposes of life, when another incident occurred that might have made sad havoc with his plans.

While at an English army station he met a very charming widow, with a young step-daughter, who was shortly to return to England. Cecil Trafford admired him with a girl's unreason, and at last committed such an imprudence that the astute step-mother, seeing her opportunity, proposed the only reparation possible,—marriage. Cecil was a bright, pretty, wilful girl, and he liked her, yet he had a strong feeling of being outgeneralled.

That she loved him he could not doubt, and they were married, as he intended to return to England. But her fondness was that of a child, and sometimes grew very wearisome. She was petulant, but not ill-tempered; the thing she cried for to-day she forgot to-morrow.

She had one sister much older than herself, married to a clergyman and settled in Devonshire. Floyd sought them out, and found them a most charming household. Mr. Garth was a strongly intellectual man, and his house was a centre for the most entertaining discussions. Mrs. Garth had a decided gift for music, and was a well-balanced, cultivated woman. They lingered month after month, gravitating between London and the Garths', until Cecil's child was born. A few weeks later Cecil's imprudence cost her life. Floyd Grandon came down from London to find the eager, restless little thing still and calm as any sculptured marble. He was so glad then that he had been indulgent to her whims and caprices.

He was quite at liberty now to join an expedition to Africa that he had heroically resisted before. Mrs. Garth kept the child. Announcing his new plans to his mother, he set off, and for the next four years devoted himself to the joys and hardships of a student traveller.

He was deep in researches of the mysterious lore of Egypt when a letter that had gone sadly astray reached him, announcing his father's death and the necessity of his return home. Leaving a friend to complete one or two unfinished points, he reluctantly tore himself away, and yet with a pang that after all it was too late to be of any real service to his father, that he could never comfort his declining years as he had Aunt Marcia's.

He had some business in Paris, and crossing the channel he met Madame Lepelletier. She was a widow and childless. The title and estate had gone to a younger son, though she had a fair provision. She had received the announcement of Mr. Grandon's death and the notice of settlement, and was on her way to America. A superbly handsome woman now, but Grandon had seen many another among charming society women. He was not in any sense a lady's man. His little taste of matrimony had left a bitter flavor in his mouth.

She admitted to herself that he was very distinguished looking. The slender fairness of youth was all outgrown. Compact, firm, supple, with about the right proportion of flesh, bronzed, with hair and beard darker than of yore, and that decisive aspect a man comes to have who learns by experience to rely upon his own judgment.

"I am on my way thither," he announced, in a crisp, business-like manner. "It is high time I returned home, though a man with no ties could spend his life amid the curiosities of the ancient civilizations. But my mother needs me, and I have a little girl in England."

"Ah?" with a faint lifting of the brows that indicated curiosity.

"I was married in India, but my wife died in England, where our child was born," he said briefly, not much given to mysteries. "An aunt has been keeping her. She must be about five," he adds more slowly.

Madame Lepelletier wondered a little about the marriage. Had the grief at his wife's death plunged him into African wilds?

They spent two or three days in London, and she decided to wait for the next steamer and go over with him, as he frankly admitted that he knew nothing about children, except as he had seen them run wild. So he despatched a letter home, recounting the chance meeting and announcing their return, little dreaming of the suspicions it might create.

Floyd Grandon found a lovely fairy awaiting him in the old Devonshire rectory. Tall for her age, exquisitely trained, possessing something better than her mother's infantile prettiness. Eyes of so dark a gray that in some lights they were black, and hair of a soft ripe-wheat tint, fine and abundant. But the soul and spirit in her face drew him toward her more than the personal loveliness. She was extremely shy at first, though she had been taught to expect papa, but the strangeness wore off presently.

They were very loth to give her up, and Mrs. Garth exacted a promise that in her girlhood she might have her again. But when they were fairly started on their journey Cecil was for a while inconsolable. Grandon was puzzled. She seemed such a strange, sudden gift that he knew not what to do. At Liverpool they met Madame Lepelletier, but all her tenderness was of no avail. Cecil did not cry now, but utterly refused to be comforted by this stranger.

It was to her father that she turned at last. That night she crept into his arms of her own accord, and sobbed softly on his shoulder.

"Can I never have Auntie Dora again?" she asked, pitifully.

"My little darling, in a long, long while. But there will be new aunties and a grandmamma."

"I don't want any one but just you." And she kissed him with a trembling eagerness that touched his heart. Suddenly a new and exquisite emotion thrilled him. This little morsel of humanity was all his. She had nothing in the world nearer, and there was no other soul to which he could lay entire claim.

After that she was a curious study to him. Gentle, yet in some respects firm to obstinacy, with a dainty exclusiveness that was extremely flattering, and that somehow he came to like, to enjoy with a certain pride.

As for Madame Lepelletier, she was rather amused at first to have her advances persistently repelled, her tempting bonbons refused, and though she was not extravagantly fond of children, she resolved to conquer this one's diffidence or prejudice, she could not quite decide which.

One day, nearly at the close of their journey, she teased Cecil by her persistence until the child answered with some anger.

"Cecil!" exclaimed Mr. Grandon, quickly.

The pretty child hung her head.

"Go and kiss Madame Lepelletier and say you are sorry. Do you know that was very rude?" said her father.

"I don't want to be kissed. I told her so," persisted the child, resolutely.

"It is such a trifle," interposed madame, with a charming smile. "And I am not sure but we ought to train little girls to be chary of their kisses. There! I will not see her teased." And the lady, rising, walked slowly away.

"Cecil!" the tone was quietly grave now.

The large eyes filled with tears, but she made no motion to relent.

"Very well," he said. "I shall not kiss my little girl until she has acted like a lady."

Cecil turned to Jane with a swelling heart. But an hour or two afterward the cunning little thing climbed her father's knee, patted his cheek with her soft fingers, parted the brown mustache, and pressed her sweet red lips to his with arch temptation.

He drew back a trifle. "Do you remember what papa said, Cecil? Will you go and kiss madame?"

The lip quivered. There was a long, swelling breath, and the lashes drooped over the slightly flushed cheeks.

"Papa doesn't love me!" she uttered, like a plaint. "He wouldn't want to give away my kisses if he did."

He took the little face in his hands, and said with a traitorous tenderness, "My little darling, I do hate to lose any of your kisses. You see you are punishing me, too, by your refusal. I think you ought to do what is right and what papa bids you."

"But I can't love to kiss her." And there was a great struggle in the little soul.

"But you can be sorry that you were rude."

The entreaty in the eyes almost melted him, but he said no more. She slipped down very reluctantly, and went across to where madame was playing chess.

"I am sorry I was rude," she said slowly. "I will kiss you now."

"You are a darling!" But for all that Madame Lepelletier longed to shake her.

Her father received her with open arms and rapturous caresses. She gave a little sob.

"You won't ask me again!" she cried. "I don't want anybody but just you, now that Auntie Dora is away."

"And I want you to love me best of all. Heaven knows, my darling, how dear you are!"

He spoke the truth. In this brief while he had grown to love her devotedly.

Madame Lepelletier was very sweet, but she did not consider it wise to rouse the child's opposition, since no one else could beguile favors from her.

Before they reached New York she had allowed herself to be persuaded to go at once to Grandon Park, and Floyd telegraphed, a little ambiguously, used as he was to brief announcements. Madame Lepelletier had made a half-resolve, piqued by his friendly indifference, that he should own her charm. She would establish a footing in the family.

And now, in the quiet of the guest-chamber, where everything is more luxurious than she has imagined, she resolves that she will win Floyd Grandon back. She will make the mother and sisters adore her. She has not been schooled in a French world for nothing, and yet it was not a very satisfactory world. She will have more real happiness here; and she sighs softly as she composes herself to sleep.

Floyd Grandon kisses his darling for the last time, then shutting his door, sits down by the window and lights a cigar. He does not want to sleep. Never in his life has he felt so like a prince. He has this lovely house, and his child to watch and train, and, mayhap, some little fame to win. He makes no moan for the dead young mother in her grave, for he understands her too truly to desire her back, with all her weakness and frivolity. He cannot invest her with attributes that she never possessed, but he can remember her in the child, who shall be true and noble and high of soul. They two, always.

Laura has fallen asleep over visions of bridal satin and lace that are sure now to come true, but Gertrude tosses restlessly and sighs for her lost youth. Twenty-nine seems fearfully old to-night, for the next will be thirty. She does not care for marriage now; but she has an impending dread of something,—it may be a contrast with that beautiful, blooming woman.

"For I know she will try to get Floyd," she says, with a bitter sigh.

This fear haunts the mother's pillow as well. Many aims and hopes of her life have failed. She loves her younger son with a tender fervor, but she does not desire to have the elder wrested out of her hands, and become a guest in the home where she has reigned mistress.

Truly they are not all beds of roses.

[ ]

CHAPTER III.

"Let the world roll blindly on,

Give me shadow, give me sun,

And a perfumed day as this is."

It is hardly dawn as yet, and the song of countless robins wakes Floyd Grandon. How they fling their notes back at one another, with a merry audacity that makes him smile! Then a strange voice, a burst of higher melody, a warble nearer, farther, fainter, a "sweet jargoning" among them all, that lifts his soul in unconscious praise. At first there is a glimmer of mystery, then he remembers,—it is his boyhood's home. There were just such songs in Aunt Marcia's time, when he slept up under the eaves of the steeply peaked roof.

The dawn flutters out, faint opal and gray, then rose and yellow, blue and a sort of silvery haze. It does not burst into sudden glory, but dallies in translucent seas, changing, fading, growing brighter, and lo, the world is burnished with a faint, tender gold. The air is sweet with dewy grasses, the spice of pines, rose, and honeysuckle, and the scent of clover-blooms, that hint of midsummer. There is the river, with its picturesque shores, and purple blue peaks opposite; down below, almost hidden by the grove, the cluster of homes, in every variety of beauty, that are considered the par excellence of Grandon Park. Mrs. Grandon would fain destroy the grove, since she loves to be seen of her neighbors; but Floyd always forbade it, and his father would not consent, so it still stands, to his delight.

"If this is the home feeling, so eloquently discoursed upon, it has not been overrated," he says softly to himself. "Home," with a lingering inflection.

"Papa! papa!" The fleet bare feet reach him almost as soon as the ringing voice. "I was afraid you were not here. Is this truly home?"

"Truly home, my darling."

He lifts her in his arms, still in her dainty nightdress, and kisses the scarlet lips, that laugh now for very gladness.

"Can I stay with you always?"

"Why, yes," in half surprise. "You are the nearest and dearest thing in all the world." Yes, he is quite sure now that he would rather part with everything than this baby girl he has known only such a little while.

Then he stands her on the floor. "Run to Jane and get dressed, and we will go out on the lawn and see the birds and flowers."

While she is engaged, he gives a brush to his flowing beard and slightly waving hair that is of a rather light brown, and puts on a summer coat. A fine-looking man, certainly, with a rather long, oval face, clearly defined brows, and sharply cut nose and mouth; with a somewhat imperious expression that gives it character. The eyes are a deep, soft brown, with curious lights rippling through them like the tints of an agate. Generally they are tranquil to coldness, so far as mere emotion is concerned, but many things kindle them into interest, and occasionally to indignation. Health and a peculiar energy are in every limb, the energy that sets itself to conquer and is never lost in mere strife or bustle.

"Papa!"

"Yes, dear."

"You will wait for me?" entreatingly.

He comes to the door with a smile. Jane is brushing the fair, shining hair that is like a sea of ripples, and Cecil stretches out her hand with pretty eagerness, as if she shall lose him, after all.

"Suppose I tie it so, and curl it after breakfast," proposes Jane. "Miss Cecil is so impatient."

"Yes, that will do." It is beautiful, any way, he thinks. Then she dances around on one foot until her dress is put on, when she gives a glad bound.

"But your pinafore! American children do wear them," says Jane, in a rather uncertain tone.

"I am a little English girl," is the firm rejoinder.

"Then of course you must," responds papa.

"And your hat! The sun is shining."

Cecil gives a glad spring then, and almost drags her father down the wide stairs. A young colored lad is brushing off the porch, but the two go down on the path that is speckless and as hard as a floor. The lawn slopes slowly toward the river, broken by a few clumps of shrubbery, a summer-house covered with vines, and another resembling a pagoda, with a great copper beech beside it. There are some winding paths, and it all ends with a stone wall, as the shore is very irregular. There is a boat-house, and a strip of gravelly beach, now that the tide is out.

Grandon turns and looks toward the house. Yes, it is handsome, grand. Youth and age together did not make any blunder of it. There is the tower, that was to be his study and library and place of resort generally. What crude dreams he had in those days! Science and poesy, art and history, were all a sad jumble in his brain, and now he has found his life-work. He hopes that he may make the world a little wiser, raise some few souls up to the heights he has found so delightful.

Cecil dances about like a fairy. She is at home amid green fields once more, for the ocean was to her a dreary desert, and the many strange faces made her uncomfortable. She is oddly exclusive and delicate, even chary about herself, but alone with her father she is all childish abandon.

There is a stir about the house presently, and Grandon begins to retrace his steps.

"Don't go," entreats Cecil.

"My dear, we must have breakfast. Grandmamma and the aunties will be waiting."

"Are they going to live there always!" with an indication of the fair head.

"Yes, some of them."

"And are we going to live there for ever and ever?"

He laughs gayly.

"I hope we will live there to a good old age."

"And madame—must she stay there, too?"

"Madame will stay for a little while. And Cecil must be kind and pleasant——"

"I can't like her!" interrupts the child, petulantly.

He studies her with some curiosity. Why should the gracious, beautiful woman be distasteful to her?

"I don't really suppose she will care much," he replies, in a rather teasing spirit.

"But if she doesn't, why should she want me to kiss her?"

"I do not believe she will ask you again. You must not be rude to any one. And you must kiss grandmamma or the aunties if they ask you."

Cecil sets her lips firmly, but makes no reply. Grandon wonders suddenly what charm Aunt Dora possessed, and how people, fathers and mothers, govern children! It is a rather perplexing problem if they turn naughty.

They walk back to the great porch, where Mrs. Grandon comes out and wishes her son a really fond good morning. Cecil submits quietly to a caress with most unchildlike gravity. Marcia comes flying along; she is always flying or rustling about, with streamers somewhere, and a very young-girlish air that looks like affectation at twenty-seven, but she will do the same at forty-seven. She is barely medium height, fair, with light hair, which by persistent application she makes almost golden. It is thin and short, and floats about her head in artistic confusion. Her eyes are a rather pale blue-gray, and near-sighted, her features small, her voice has still the untrained, childish sound of extreme youth. She is effusive and full of enthusiasms, rather unbalanced, Floyd decides in a day or two.

"Good morning!" exclaims the bright voice of Eugene. "Upon my word, you make quite an imposing paterfamilias, and Cecil, I dare say, has found the weak place and tyrannizes over you. Come to me, little lady," pinching her lovely pink cheek.

But Cecil almost hides behind her father, and is proof against the blandishments of the handsome young man. He is not quite so tall as Floyd, but grace, from the splendidly shaped head to the foot worthy of a woman's second glance. A clear, rich complexion, very dark hair and eyes, and a mustache that looks as if it was pencilled in jet. Laura has these darker tints as well. Certainly Mrs. Grandon has no cause to be dissatisfied with her two youngest on the score of good looks.

Floyd lifts Cecil in his arms and admits that she does not make friends easily. Then with a change in his tone, "How finely the place has been kept up! Shall I thank you or mother for it, Eugene? Aunt Marcia's old farm has arrived at great state and dignity. I have seen few places abroad that I like better, though much, of course, on a far grander scale."

"Aunt Marcia 'builded better than she knew.' Grandon Park is the seat of fashion and taste; isn't that right, Marcia? And Floyd, old fellow, you are to be envied. I wish I had been eldest born."

Floyd smiles, yet something in the tone jars a trifle. Then the breakfast-bell rings and they move through the hall just as Madame Lepelletier sweeps down the stairs like a princess in cream cashmere and lace. Her radiance is not impaired by daylight. Marcia seems to shrivel up beside her, and Gertrude looks extremely faded, washed out.

They are all bright and gay. Madame Lepelletier is one of the women who seldom tolerates dulness or that embarrassing awkwardness that occasionally settles even in well-bred circles. She is charming and vivacious, she has resolved that they shall all like her, and though she is not a particularly generous person, she has discerned how she may be of use to them and win herself gratitude and friendship. She is too politic ever to make an enemy, and she keeps her friends so well in hand that their possible defection shall not injure her, but rather themselves. Young, handsome, fascinating, and with abundant means for herself, she has been in no hurry to change her state in life. But Grandon Park and its owner look as tempting this morning as they did in her twilight revery last evening.

"What will you do, Floyd?" asks Eugene, presently. "Come up to the factory, or——"

"Oh," returns Laura, with a kind of merry audacity, blushing a little, "we shall keep him home this morning."

"Well, I must be off. Business, you see. But I shall hold myself free for this afternoon if any of you ladies will honor me," bowing to Madame Lepelletier, who acknowledges it with a ravishing smile that makes every pulse thrill.

Floyd and his mother have the first confidence. There are the sad particulars of the death, now more than six months old. The will has been read, but there is a sealed packet of instruction for Floyd, still in the lawyer's hands. The business seems to be in a rather involved state, what with partners and a patent that Mr. Grandon felt sure would make all their fortunes. The main point relating to Laura is this: While the mother has a yearly income from the business, the girls are to be paid five thousand dollars down, and five thousand more at the expiration of three years. Laura needs hers for present emergencies. But just now there are notes coming due and no money.

"I can easily arrange that," says Floyd, "by advancing Laura's money. How odd this should be the first marriage in the family, and Laura the youngest!"

"You forget your own," remarks his mother, in surprise.

"Why, so I did." And a flush is visible under the bronze. "It is so like a dream to me, over in one short year."

"And you were very much in love, doubtless? It must have been terrible!"

"It was a most unexpected death," ignoring the first remark. "She was so young, a mere child."

Not even to his mother can he express his manhood's views of the whole occurrence. But he knows that he did not love her deeply, and the consciousness will always give him a little shock. At the same time he settles that he is not the kind of man to be swept off his feet by the passion of love.

Then they call Laura in and Floyd explains the ease with which the matter can be settled. "I shall pay you and take your claim against the estate. What kind of a wedding are you to have? You see I must be posted in these matters, so that I shall do myself honor and credit as the head of the family."

"Of course it will have to be rather quiet, as we are still in mourning, and so many of Arthur's family are out of town. He will be up to lunch to-day: I asked him to meet you. But he thought—early in July," and she colors a little, smiling, too. "We are to go to Newport, that is, you know, we really could plan nothing until you came. And, oh, Floyd, it will be so delightful to have Madame Lepelletier! We have been talking it over, and she will help me do my shopping. She is just as good as she is lovely. But if you only could have ordered me some things in Paris!"

"Why, I never bought any such thing in my life," says Floyd, laughingly. "But I have some trinkets among my luggage that you may like, gems and cameos, and some curious bracelets. I did remember that I had some sisters at home."

"Oh, you are really charming! You cannot imagine how doleful we have been. Eugene could not do anything about the money, and he has been in a worry with Mr. Wilmarth and cross if any one said a word."

Floyd laughs at this. The idea of Eugene being cross is amusing.

Laura flits out of the room much elated. She and Arthur can settle everything to-day, and the shopping will be so delightful, for Madame Lepelletier is quite as good as a Frenchwoman.

Mrs. Grandon sighs, and Floyd looks at her questioningly.

"You are so good, Floyd. It is such a relief to have you. I only hope the business will not weary you out, and that—there will be no real trouble."

He kisses Cecil's little hand that is wandering through his beard, and presses her closer as she sits quietly on his knee. "I shall think nothing a trouble," he says. "It is father's trust to me. Come, you must be gay and happy, and not cloud Laura's wedding with forebodings. Let us take a tour through the house now. I am quite curious to know if I have remembered it rightly."

"I wonder if you can find your way. I must look after the luncheon."

"Oh, yes," he replies. "I think there is no labyrinth."

On one side of the hall there is the long drawing-room, and a smaller apartment that might be a conservatory it is so full of windows, or a library, but it is a sort of sitting-room at present. Then the tower, that has a large entrance, and might be the façade, if one pleased. An oaken stairway winds a little to the room above, which is empty but for a few chairs and a bamboo settee. Up again to another lovely room, and then it is crowned by an observatory. From here the prospect is magnificent. The towns above, that dot the river's edge, and the long stretch below, are like a panorama. How wonderfully changed! How busy and thriving this new world is! He thinks of the leagues and leagues he has traversed where a mill or a factory would be an unknown problem, and the listless stupor of content is over all. Yet buried in the sand or under ruins is the history of ages as prosperous, as intellectual, and as wise. How strange a thing the world of life really is!

Cecil breaks into his thoughts with her tender chatter. She is not an obtrusive child, and, though bright, has grave moods and strange spells of thought. She is delighted to be so high up and able to look down over everything.

They return at length, and he carries her down-stairs. On the second floor there is a connecting passage to the main house, and two beautiful rooms that he planned for himself because they were retired. Feminine belongings are scattered about,—satchels and fans and queer bottles of perfumery. He guesses rightly that Laura is domiciled here, and in the adjoining chamber Gertrude lies on the bed with a novel.

"Oh, Floyd!"

"Pardon me."

"Come in," she says, raising herself on one elbow. "I am up here a good deal, because I like quiet and my health is so wretched. Everybody else is busy about something, and I bore them, so I keep out of their way."

"You do look poorly," he answers, sympathetically. She is not only pale, but sallow, and there are hollows in her cheeks. Her hands, which were once very pretty, are thin as birds' claws. There is a fretful little crease in her forehead, and her eyes have a look of utter weariness.

"Yes, I am never strong. I cannot bear excitement. Marcia's life would exhaust me in a month, and Laura's fuss would drive me crazy. Have they said anything about her marriage?"

"It is all settled, or will be when her lover comes to-day. Do you like him, Gertrude?"

"He is well enough, I suppose, and rich. You couldn't imagine Laura marrying a poor man."

Floyd Grandon is not at all sure that he understands the hidden or manifest purposes of love, but he has a secret clinging to the orthodox belief that it is a necessary ingredient in marriages.

"You are cynical," he says, with a pleasant laugh. "You do not have enough fresh air."

"But I see Laura." Then, after a pause, "Do not imagine I have the slightest objection. There will be only two of us left, and it does seem as if Marcia might pick up some one. Floyd——"

"Well," as she makes a long pause.

"Do you know anything about the business? Eugene is so—so unsatisfactory. Where is Laura going to get her money?"

"I shall attend to that. Gertrude, what has been said about affairs that makes you all so desponding?"

Floyd Grandon asks a question as if he expected an answer. Gertrude gives a little twist to her long, slender figure, and pushes one shoulder forward.

"Well, there has been no money, and Eugene cannot get any. And all you hear about is notes to pay."

The house certainly does not look as if there was any lack. The table is bountiful, and he has seen four servants, he is quite sure.

"My not being here has delayed the settlement, no doubt," he answers, cheerfully. "It will all come right."

"You quite put courage into one. I suppose you always feel well and strong; you have grown handsome, Floyd, and there is nothing to make you desponding."

"Yes, I am always well. Do you stay in-doors all the time and read? You must have a change, something to stir your nerves and brain, and infuse a new spirit in you."

"I am too weak for exercise. Even carriage-riding tires me dreadfully. And my nerves cannot bear the least thing. I dread this wedding and all the tumult, only it will be excellent to have it finished up and off one's mind." Then she sighs and turns to her book again.

"We are on a tour of discovery," says Floyd, rather gayly, as he moves forward. "The house seems quite new to me, and extremely interesting."

She makes no effort to detain him. They turn into the hall, and a voice from above calls Floyd.

"Oh, are you up here, Marcia?" beginning to ascend.

"Yes. Here is my eyrie, my den, my study, or whatever name fits it best. I have a fancy for being high up. Nothing disturbs me. I have never been able, though, to decide which I really liked best, this or the tower. Only here I have three connecting rooms. Cecil, you little darling, come and kiss me! Floyd, I must paint that heavenly child! I have been doing a little at portraits. I want to take some lessons as soon as the ships come in. I hope you have brought fair weather, and—is it a high tide that floats the barque in successfully?"

She utters all this in a breath, and makes a dash at Cecil, who buries her face in her father's coat-sleeve.

"Cecil's kisses do not seem to be very plentiful," he remarks. "But how quaint and pretty you are up here!"

The sleeping chamber is done up in white, gold, and blue, and in very tolerable order. This middle room is characteristic. The floor is of hard wood and oiled, and rugs of every description are scattered about. Easels with and without pictures, studies, paintings in oil and water-colors, bric-à-brac of every shape and kind, from pretty to ugly, a cabinet, some book-shelves, a wide, tempting lounge in faded raw silk, with immense, loose cushions, two tables full of litter, and several lounging chairs. Evidently Marcia is not of the severe order.

The third room really beggars description. An easel stands before the window, with a pretentious canvas on which a winding river has made its appearance, but the dry land has not yet emerged from chaos.

"You paint"—he begins, when she interrupts,—

"And now that you have come, Floyd, you can give me some advice. I was such a young idiot when I ran over Europe, but you have done it leisurely. Did you devote much time to French art? I can't decide which to make a specialty. The French are certainly better teachers, but why, then, do so many go to Rome? It is my dream." And she clasps her hands in a melodramatic manner.

"What have you been doing?" he asks, as she pauses for breath.

"I took up those things first," nodding to some flower pieces. "But every school-girl paints them."

"These are exceedingly well done," he says, examining them closely.

"There is nothing distinctive about them. Who remembers a rose or a bunch of field flowers? Half a dozen women have honorable mention and one cannot be told from the other. But a landscape or a story or a striking portrait,—you really must let me try Cecil," glancing at her with rapture. "Oh, there is an article here in the Art Journal on which you must give me an opinion." And flying up, she begins a confusing search. "It is so good to find a kindred soul——"

A light tap at the door breaks up the call. It is Jane, who with a true English courtesy says,—

"If you please, Mr. Grandon, Miss Laura sent me to say that Mr. Delancy has come."

Floyd has been so amused with Marcia that he goes rather reluctantly, and finds his sister's betrothed in the drawing-room, quite at home with Madame Lepelletier, though possibly a little dazzled. Arthur Delancy is a blond young man of five or six and twenty, well looking, well dressed, and up in all the usages of "the best society." He greets Mr. Grandon with just the right shade of deference as the elder and a sort of guardian to his financé. He pays his respects to Miss Cecil with an air that completely satisfies the little lady, it has the distance about it so congenial to her.

"Floyd," Laura says, with a laugh, "that child is intensely English. She has the 'insular pride' we hear so much about."

"And English hair and complexion," continues Mr. Delancy; while madame adds her graceful little meed.

A very pleasant general conversation ensues, followed by an elegant luncheon, to which Eugene adds a measure of gayety. Afterward the two gentlemen discuss business, and with several references to Laura the bridal day is appointed six weeks hence. The marriage they decide will be in church, and a wedding breakfast at home, quiet, with only a few friends and relatives, and after a week in Canada they will go to Newport.

"But how can I ever get ready?" cries Laura in dismay to madame. "Why, I haven't anything! I shall actually wear you out with questions and decisions. Oh, do you realize that you are a perfect godsend?" and she kisses her enthusiastically.

"Yes," says Madame Lepelletier, so softly and sweetly that it is like a breath of musical accord. "I will settle myself in the city and you must come to me——"

"In the city!" interrupts Laura, with both dismay and incredulity in her tone. "My dearest dear, you will not be allowed to leave Grandon Park, except with myself for keeper, to return as soon as may be."

"But I cannot trespass on your hospitality."

"Mamma, Floyd, will you come and invite Madame Lepelletier to make a two months' visit? I want her for six full weeks, and then she must have a little rest."

They overrule all her delicate scruples, though Mrs. Grandon does it rather against her will. Is it bringing temptation to Floyd's hand, that perhaps might not reach out otherwise!

That is settled. Floyd's boxes and trunks make their appearance, Eugene orders the horses, and the four go to drive on this magnificent afternoon.

"I think," Floyd says to his mother when the sound of wheels has subsided, "this luggage may as well go to the tower room. I wish——" Will he not seem ungracious to declare his preferences so soon?

"What?" she asks, a little nervously.

"It would make too much fuss at this crisis to change rooms with the girls, I suppose?"

"Let Laura take the larger front room? She did have it until we heard you were coming. Oh, she wouldn't mind. But you——"

"I should be out of the way there by myself," he pleads. "All my traps would be handy, and if I wanted to sit up at night I should disturb no one."

"It shall be just as you like. Yes, it would be more convenient for you. Why, we could go at it this very afternoon."

"But Gertrude——"

"Give Gertrude a book and she would sit in the débris of Mount Vesuvius," says her mother.

Mary, the housemaid, is called upon, and cook generously offers her services. Gertrude comes down-stairs grumbling a little. The two rooms are speedily dismantled of feminine belongings, but the quaint old mahogany bedroom suite is taken over because Floyd prefers it to the light ash with its fancy adornments. James, the coachman, and Briggs, the young lad, carry up the luggage. There is a little sweeping and dusting, and Floyd settles his rooms as he has often settled a tent or a cabin or a cottage. He has grown to be as handy as a woman.

He feels more at home over here, not so much like a guest. His room is not so large, but he has all the tower and the wide prospect on both sides. He can read and smoke and sit up at his pleasure without disturbing a soul. The "girls" and the wedding finery will all be together.

"Laura will be delighted," declares Mrs. Grandon again. In her secret heart she feels this arrangement will take Floyd a little out of madame's reach. Beside the tower there is a back stairway leading to a side entrance, quite convenient to Eugene's room. It is admirable altogether.

Floyd begins to unpack with hearty energy. Only the most necessary articles, the rest will keep till a day of leisure. To-morrow he must look into the business, and he hopes he will not find matters very troublesome. He has a good deal of his own work to do, and he sighs a little, wishing the wedding were well over.

Laura leaves her lover at the station, and is not a whit disconcerted by the change in affairs.

She and Madame Lepelletier are going to the city to-morrow to spend several days in shopping, and this evening they must devote to a discussion of apparel. They scarcely miss Floyd, who goes to bed at last with the utmost satisfaction.

[ ]

CHAPTER IV.

My heart no truer, but my words and ways more true to it.—Robert Browning.

"Say good by to papa." And Floyd Grandon stoops to kiss his little daughter. "Jane will take you out to walk, and Aunt Gertrude will show you the pictures again if you ask her."

The evening before she had evinced a decided liking for Gertrude.

"Where are you going?" There was a quick apprehensiveness in her tone as she caught his hand.

"On some business," with a smile.

"Take me, too. I don't want to stay here alone," she cries, imperiously.

There is a soft rustle in the hall. Madame has come down in advance of Laura. The carriage stands waiting to take them to the station.

Floyd bites his lips in annoyance. Since they left Devonshire, Cecil has scarcely been an hour out of his sight save when asleep. He cannot take her now,—the thought is absurd.

"No, my dear. It would not amuse a little girl, and I shall be too busy. Do not be naughty," he entreats.

"I want to go with you. I will not stay here!"

"Cecil!"

"I will run away," she says, daringly. "I will not look at pictures nor walk with Jane."

"Then you will be naughty, and papa cannot love you," bending his face down to hers. "I shall not be glad to come back to a little girl who will not please or obey me."

"Take me, then!" There is a great, dry sob in her throat.

If only Madame Lepelletier were away! His experience with children is so very limited, that he is almost weak enough to yield to this sweet tyranny.

"Kiss me." Eugene has driven around with his horse and the buggy.

Cecil drops her hands by her side, and her large, deep eyes float in tears, but her brilliant lips are set. Just once they open.

"You are naughty to me," she says, with childish audacity.

"Very well." He takes a slow step as if to give her time for repentance. He could bestow an undignified shake upon the proud little mite, but he refrains.

"Jane, come and look after Miss Cecil," he exclaims, authoritatively. Then he gives her a quick kiss, but she stands with swelling chest and eyes glittering in tears, watching him out of sight.

Aunt Laura rustles down.

"Mutiny in the camp," says madame, with a little laugh; and though Cecil does not understand, she knows she is meant.

"Floyd will have his hands full with that child," comments Laura. "She is not so angelic as she looks."

Floyd has stepped into the buggy. Sultan snuffs with his thin nostrils, and paces with proud grace.

"There's a beauty for you, Floyd," Eugene says, triumphantly. "You cannot find his match anywhere about here."

Floyd is very fond of handsome horses, and Sultan stirs a sudden enthusiasm. Eugene expatiates eloquently upon his merits, which are evident. The shady road, the fragrant air, the glimpses of the broad river glittering in the morning sun, and the purple cliff opposite, are indeed a dream of beauty. He more than half wishes there was no business to distract one's mind.

"How it has all changed!" he says, presently. "I was amazed yesterday, looking from the tower, to see how Westbrook had enlarged her borders and indulged in high chimneys. There must be considerable business in the town. There is quite a length of dock and shipping, and streets in every direction."

"Yes. Floyd, will you go to Connery's first or to the factory? The will is in the safe, the letter of instruction at the lawyer's."

"Why not stop and get that? I want to see both, you know."

"And Connery's room is a stuffy little den. Well, we will stop for it, and if you want to consult him afterward, you can."

Mr. Connery has gone to the city on important business. The clerk hunts up the packet, and they go on.

The old factory has altered as well. A new part has been built, with a pretentious business office, and an ante-room that is quite luxuriously appointed, with Russia-leather chairs, lounge, a pretty cabinet, pictures, and several lovely statuettes.

"Now if you want to go through all these things, Floyd, you can do it at your leisure. We can't talk business until we know what basis it is to be on, and the will is a sort of dead letter without further instructions. I have a little errand to do which will take an hour or so, and——"

"Yes," is the quick affirmative. He is holding his dead father's letter in his hand and wishing to be alone with it.

"Here is the will," taking it from the safe. "There are cigars, so make yourself comfortable, and if you should prove the arbiter of my fate, deal gently." And the young man gives a gay little laugh.

Floyd seats himself by the window, but fond as he is of smoking, the cigars do not tempt him. His eyes rest upon these words until they all seem to run together:—"For my eldest son, Floyd Grandon. To be read by him before any settlement of the business." How different these irregular letters from his father's usual firm business hand! Ah, how soon afterward the trembling fingers were cold in death! He presses it to his lips with an unconscious, reverent tenderness.

The love between them had not been of the romantic kind, but he recalls his father's pride and pleasure in his young manhood, his interest in the house and the marriage arrangement. The later letters of his father have touched him, too, with a sort of secret weariness, as if his absorbing interest in business had begun to decline. He had planned some release and journeys for him, but the last journey of all had been taken, and he was at rest.

Slowly he broke the double seal and took the missive out of its enclosure, and began the perusal.

To my dear Son Floyd,—When you read this the hand that penned it will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.

The pathos blurred his eyes, and he turned them to the window. The sun shone, the busy feet tramped to and fro, there was the ceaseless hum of the machinery, but the brain that had planned, the heart that had hoped, was away from it all, silent and cold, and the mantle had fallen on one who had no part or lot in the matter.

The letter had been written at intervals, and gave a clear statement of the business. Mr. Wilmarth had one quarter-share, Mr. St. Vincent had another quarter-share, and a certain amount of royalty on a patent that Mr. Grandon felt would secure a fortune to them all if rightly managed. For this, he asked Floyd's supervision. Eugene was too young to feel the importance of strict, vigorous attention. There was no ready money, the factory was mortgaged, and the only maintenance of the family must come from the business.

A chill sped over Floyd. Commercial pursuits had always wearied and disgusted him. Now, when he understood the bent and delight of his own soul, to lay his work aside and take up this—ah, he could not, he said.

Then he went over the will. To his mother, the furniture and silver, and, in lieu of dower, the sum of two thousand dollars yearly. To his sisters, the sum of five thousand apiece, to be paid as soon as the business would allow, and at the expiration of a term of years five thousand more. The half-share of the business to belong to Eugene solely after the legacies were paid. The library and two valuable pictures were bequeathed to Floyd, and in the tender explanation, he knew it was from no lack of affection that he had been left out of other matters.

The heavy bell clangs out the hour of noon. No one comes to disturb him. It seems like being in the presence of the dead, in a kind of breathless, waiting mystery. The duty is thrust upon him, if it can be done. His father seems confident, but how will liabilities and assets balance? Then he remembers the luxury at home, Eugene's fast horse, and his air of easy indifference. Certainly there must be something.

After a while the quiet oppresses him. He saunters around the room, that wears the aspect of indolent ease rather than business. Then he emerges into a wide hallway, and strolls over opposite. Here is a well-packed storehouse, then a small place in semi-obscurity, into which he peers wonderingly, when a figure rises that startles him out of his self-possession for a moment.

A man whose age would be hard to tell, though his thick, short hair is iron gray and his beard many shades whiter. Short of stature, with very high shoulders, that suggest physical deformity, squarely built and stout, a square, rugged face, with light, steely eyes and overhanging brows. It is a repellent face and form, and Floyd Grandon says slowly,—

"Pardon my intrusion. I—" rather embarrassed at the steady gaze—"I am Mr. Floyd Grandon."

"Ah!" There is something akin to a sneer in the exclamation. "Doubtless your brother has spoken of me,—Jasper Wilmarth."

This, then, is his father's partner. He is utterly amazed, bewildered.

"I heard of your return," he continues. There is something peculiar, as if the man weighed every word. "We have been looking for you," rather dryly.

"I hope my delay has not proved injurious to the business," says Grandon, recovering his usual dignity. "I find that I am executor of the estate with my mother, and I suppose some steps are necessary. I shall qualify immediately. In what condition is the business?"

"Bad enough," is the reply. "Trade is dull, and I am sorry to say that our new machinery, put in at a great expense, does not work satisfactorily."

Floyd is startled at the frankness, as well as the admission.

"Where is the other partner, Mr. St. Vincent?"

"Out of town somewhere," indifferently.

"He holds the patent——"

"That we were wild enough to undertake; yes."

"My father seemed to have great hopes of it."

The high shoulders are shrugged higher. There is something bitter and contemptuous in the man's face, a look that indicates fighting, though what can there be to fight about?

The great bell rings out again. Nooning is over, and there are hurrying steps up the wide alleyway.

"I wonder," Floyd begins, "if you know where my brother went. He said something about Rockwood,—and was to be back shortly."

"If he has gone to Rockwood, I doubt if you see him before mid-afternoon." The sneer is plainly evident here, and Grandon feels some antagonistic blood rise.

"I suppose," he continues, in his usual courteous tone, "that it will be best to have a business meeting as soon as possible. I will consult Mr. Connery; an inventory was taken, I suppose."

"Yes. It is in his hands."

Wilmarth is certainly hard to get on with. To natural brusqueness is added an evident disinclination to discuss the business. Floyd is much too proud to seem curious, though here he has a right to know all, but he feels that he will not be able to make much headway alone.

"I think I will return," he says. "If my brother comes in, tell him, if you please, that I have gone home. We have not discussed any business yet, but will begin to-morrow. Good day."

He goes back, folds up the papers, and places them carefully in his breast-pocket, takes his hat and walks slowly out, wondering if his father really trusted this man. He inspires Floyd with a deep, inveterate dislike, a curious suspicion before he knows there is anything to suspect. He wishes—ah, at that moment he feels inclined to pay the legacies and his mother's pension, and wash his hands of the other distasteful charge. Then some words of his father's come back: "Remember that Eugene is young and thoughtless, and be patient."

It is very warm as he steps into the street, and he remembers a sort of river road that used to be shady, where he has rambled many a time. Everything is changed, the hills levelled, the valleys filled up, but he presently finds a strip of woodland near the shore edge, and a path much overgrown with blackberry-vines. He picks his way along, now and then meeting with a remembered aspect, when he comes across a sort of Swiss châlet on the sloping hillside. Two peaks of roof, odd, long, narrow windows, with diamond-shape panes of glass, a vine-covered porch, an old woman in black, with white kerchief and high-crowned cap suggestive of Normandy; and through an open window a man sitting at a table, with instruments or machinery before him, engrossed with some experiments. A peculiar, delicate face, with a high, narrow forehead, thin white hair worn rather long and now tumbled, a drooping nose, a snowy white, pointed beard, and thin, long fingers, as colorless as Gertrude's.

Somewhere he has seen a picture of an alchemist not unlike this. He can even discern the intent eagerness of the face as the fingers delicately manipulate something. So interested is he that he forgets his recent perplexity, and, seating himself on a rocky ledge, watches. The air is tensely clear, the river blue as the sky in the intervals of shade. Here and there a dappled rift of cloud floating slowly, a picture of virginal beauty, tinctured with the essence of a hundred summers. The air is drowsily sweet, and he lapses into forgetfulness,—a traveller's trick.

When he opens his eyes the student is still there; the old woman has had her nap and is knitting. A large-eyed greyhound sits at her side. Floyd has half a mind to break in upon the scholar's sanctity, but remembering that he is now a part and parcel of civilization, refrains and resumes his journey; and now it is of Cecil he thinks. The perplexities of the morning have quite excluded baby naughtiness. Will she be glad to see him,—first in her half-shy, wholly seductive manner, then with her ardent, entire love? He is pleased to find her not easily won from him.

The house is very quiet. Bruno, the great dog, comes forward and studies him with sagacious, penetrating eyes. He pats him and says kindly,—

"Your mother knew and loved me, good Bruno."

Gertrude is on the library sofa. "Oh," she cries with a start, "where is Eugene?"

"I have not seen him since morning. Gertrude, is there anything special at Rockwood?"

"Why no,—the Casino, and the track, you know. They speed horses, and sometimes have races, I believe. Have you had lunch?"

"Just a biscuit and a glass of wine will do," he says. "Don't disturb yourself. Where is Cecil?"

"Jane has had her all day. She wouldn't even be friendly with me. Marcia and mother have gone out for calls, I believe."

Just as he enters the dining-room he turns his head. "Gertrude, do you know an odd little cottage on the side of what used to be Savin Rock?"

"A sort of chapel-looking place, with pointed roof?"

"Yes. Who lives there?"

"Why, Mr. St. Vincent."

"The partner, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever see him? What kind of looking person is he?"

"Yes. He was here several times. He had the patent, you know. O Floyd, do you understand anything about the business? Papa thought he should make a great deal of money. Did you see Mr. Wilmarth? Isn't he queer and——" She ends with a shiver.

"I feel just that way about him myself. But what is St. Vincent like?"

"Tall and thin and deadly pale. A kind of French Canadian, I believe. You see he was so enthusiastic and so sure, and so was papa, but something went wrong. Oh, I do hope we will not lose our money! To be ill and wretched and homeless, for no doubt you will marry again, and——"

Floyd laughs heartily. "You shall not be homeless," he says, "and I will even promise to keep you in books. There, don't distress yourself." How often he has to administer comfort!

His lunch is the matter of a few moments, then he hurries up-stairs. The tower door is open, and there is no one to be seen. He keeps on and on until he catches a flutter of a white dress. Cecil is running around the observatory, and his heart beats as he glances at the dazzling little sprite, with her sparkling eyes and her hair a golden mist about her face. He could watch forever, but it is a daring pastime.

"Cecil," he calls softly.

"O papa!" She stops and flushes a deeper pink, then suddenly remembers in the midst of her delight, and there is a tacit reproach in her eyes.

"Have you a kiss for papa?"

She considers gravely, then with a quick bound she is in his arms.

"What are you doing up here, alone?"

"I ran away, a little. I am close up to the birdies, papa, see!"

A flock of swallows were wheeling and circling around. She claps her hands in glee. "Couldn't you open the windows?"

"Not now. The sun is too warm. And, my darling, I wish you would not come up here without Jane. You might fall."

"Miss Cecil, are you up there?" calls Jane.

Grandon takes her down in his arms. "Jane," he says in a low tone, "never let Miss Cecil out of your sight."

"Papa," she begins again, "grandmamma went out in such a pretty carriage. Can't we go, too?"

"Why, yes, I think so. Stay here until I see whether I can find a horse."

He goes out to the stables. The coachman and the gardener are enjoying their afternoon pipes. Everything out here seems on the same lavish scale. There must be money somewhere, Floyd thinks, or debt, and of that he has a horror.

The carriage horses are in, and Mr. Eugene's pretty saddle mare, Beauty. Then Marcia has a pony, and Sultan counts up five. He orders the carriage without any comment, and actually persuades Gertrude to accompany them, or takes her against her will.

The sun is slipping westward now. They leave the beaten ways and go out among farm-houses and orchards, broad fields of grain and waving grasses, making a mass of subtile harmonies. A feeling of rare content fills Floyd Grandon's soul again. There will be so much to enjoy that he need not grudge the few months spent in this wearisome business.

Dinner is ready when they return. Marcia is in unusually high spirits, but Eugene seems tired and out of humor. He apologizes to Floyd for his defection, something quite unexpected detained him.

"Eugene," he says afterward, "let us have a little talk. I want to know how matters stand. I saw Mr. Wilmarth and he feels doubtful, I should say. What is there about the machinery? The new arrangement does not work? Is there any special indebtedness?"

"Wilmarth is looking after that. Trade has somehow fallen off, but it is out of season. What are you to do?" he asks, cautiously.

"First, begin to pay the legacies,—fifteen thousand to the girls."

"Well, you can't. There are two notes falling due, and the whole thing will have to be squeezed,—if it can be raised. Floyd, you are a lucky chap, with a fortune ready made to your hand. I wish I stood in your shoes. I hate business!"

He says this with a kind of vicious fling.

The handsome, ease-loving face deepens into a frown. It is eager for enjoyment and indifferent to consequences, at once fascinating and careless.

"Would you really like to keep the business, Eugene?" asks the elder.

"I wouldn't keep it a day if Wilmarth could take the whole thing. But there are so many complications and so much money to pay out. I really do not see what is to be left for me," discontentedly.

"If the other two make anything, your half-share ought to be worth something."

"But you see it never can pay the—the family."

"It does not seem to me that father would have made just such a will if he had not believed it equitable or possible. I shall ask Connery to call a meeting to-morrow or as soon as possible. When does this note fall due?"

"I really do not know. I told you Wilmarth looked out for those things," he says impatiently.

"Have you any clear idea about the new patent? Is it really worth working? What are Mr. Wilmarth's views on the subject?"

"St. Vincent has to change something or other. He is very sanguine, and wants Wilmarth to wait a little. I don't believe he has perfect faith in it."

"I want you to read father's letter," Floyd says gravely.

"Not to-night, old fellow. To tell the truth, my head aches and I feel stupid. We'll look into things to-morrow. Only, Floyd, don't bring up a fellow with too sharp a turn."

Floyd sighs. He will not have much help in his task, he can plainly foresee. There remains Mr. St. Vincent.

"Eugene," and there is a touch of deep feeling in his tone, "I want us to work together harmoniously. Remember that I have nothing to gain in all this. Whatever I do must be for your benefit and that of the family. I have my own plans and aims, but you will always find me brotherly."

"Oh, well, don't pull such a solemn face about it. I dare say it will come out right. St. Vincent will get everything fixed up presently. Every business gets in a tight place now and then. Let us wind up our conclave with a friendly cigar."

Floyd is still holding Cecil in his arms, now asleep, but he will not relinquish his precious burden. Marcia has some guests on the porch; he hears their chatter and laughter. Is he, too; growing captious and uncomfortable?

[ ]

CHAPTER V.

Still, when we purpose to enjoy ourselves,

To try our valor fortune sends a foe,

To try our equanimity a friend.

Goethe.

Floyd Grandon resolves upon two steps the next morning, and puts them into execution immediately. The first is a visit to Mr. Connery. The lawyer is a rather elderly, pleasant-looking man, with a mouth and eyes that impress you at once as being quite capable of a certain reserve, trust, secrecy. The ordinary courtesies of the day pass between the two, and Mr. Grandon can well believe Mr. Connery when he says emphatically that he is glad of Mr. Grandon's return.

Floyd proceeds at once to business, and asks his questions in a straightforward manner.

"When I drew up your father's will, Mr. Grandon," replies the lawyer, "according to his showing it seemed a very fair one. To take out actual money would have destroyed the business at once, and that was what he counted on for Eugene. Perhaps it was not the wisest plan——"

"I am afraid Eugene cares very little for the business. Still, he is nothing of a student——" and Floyd pauses.

"Simply a young man of pleasure, who has always had plenty of money and an indulgent father. We may as well look at the facts, and you must pardon my plain speaking. He keeps two fast horses, and is at Rockwood a good deal. There is a race-course and a kind of gentlemen's club-house. It is an excellent place to spend money, if one has it to throw away," Mr. Connery adds dryly.

Floyd flushes and a little chill speeds along his nerves. "Did you know exactly what the claims against the estate were at the time of my father's death?" he asks, getting away from the subject.

"The factory your father owns alone. There is a mortgage of three thousand dollars on it. One half-share of the business, stock, machinery, etc., was his, and this is subject to a note of seven thousand dollars, incurred when the new machinery was put in. Why, it must be about due," and Mr. Connery goes to his safe. "The expectation was that the business could pay this and then begin with the legacies. But—I am afraid all has not been clear sailing."

"How long has this Wilmarth been with my father?" Floyd asks abruptly.

"Four or five years. You see your father hoped very much from some new process of manufacture. I wish he could have lived. Wilmarth is not a prepossessing man, yet I have never heard him spoken of in any but the highest terms. He is a bachelor, lives plainly, and has no vices, though he may have a desire to amass a fortune. I think, indeed, he rather urged your father to this new undertaking. St. Vincent I really know nothing about. He is an inventor and an enthusiast. Your place, Mr. Grandon, will be a hard one to fill, and you can count on me for any assistance."

"Thank you," returns Floyd, warmly. "I shall see St. Vincent and arrange for a meeting. I neither understand business nor like it, and have some matters of my own demanding my attention, but I must see this placed on a proper basis. I shall be glad to come to you."

Floyd feels as if he had gained one friend. Then he pursues his way to the little nest among the cliffs. The greyhound comes to greet him first, snuffs him critically, then puts his nose in Grandon's hand. By this time the housekeeper has come out, who is a veritable Norman woman.

A great disappointment awaits Floyd. Mr. St. Vincent started an hour ago for Canada, to bring his daughter home, who has been educated in a convent. "But ma'm'selle is a Protestant, like her father," says the old lady, with a sigh.

Then Floyd Grandon betakes himself to the factory. Eugene is out. He has no fancy for discussing matters with Wilmarth at present, so he returns home and busies himself in fitting up a study in one of the tower rooms. Rummaging through the attic he finds an old secretary of Aunt Marcia's, and unearths other treasures that quite stir his sister's envy.

"For those old things are all coming back," she says in a tone of poignant regret, whether at this fact or at the realization of the loss of them he is not quite certain.

The house is quiet and delightful. Marcia amuses him with her artistic flights and wild fancies. Floyd thinks if she would confine herself to the work she could do really well she would be a success, but her ambition is so tinctured with every new view that she never quite settles, but flutters continually.

That evening Floyd resolves to bring Eugene to a sense of what lies actually before him. He evades at first, fidgets, and grows unmistakably cross.

"The family expenses, Eugene,—how have they been met?" questions the elder steadily.

"They haven't been met at all," says Eugene. "There has only been money enough to pay the men and all that. I told you Laura couldn't have her money. But there was no use breaking up the family,—where could they have gone?"

"I think, then, there has been a good deal of extravagance," is Floyd's decisive comment. "There are five horses in the stable, and four servants. I cannot afford such an establishment."

"Oh, I say, Floyd, don't turn a miserable hunks of a miser the first thing, when you have such a splendid fortune! I wouldn't grudge anything with all that money in my hand."

"Some of it will go rapidly enough. I shall pay Gertrude and Marcia their first instalment, as I have Laura, and my mother must have something. Then, the house debts; do you know where the bills are?"

With Mrs. Grandon's help they get the bills together, and there are some still to come in.

"Of course the house is yours," says his mother in a sharp tone. "You may wish to marry again——"

That is so far from Floyd's thoughts that he shakes his head impatiently and replies,—

"The thing to be considered is who is to provide for the family. If the business cannot do it at present, I shall. But it will have to be done within my income. My own habits are not extravagant——"

"Well, I should say!" and Eugene laughs immoderately. "A man who travels round the world like a prince, who buys everything he chooses, joins exploring expeditions with lords and marquises, keeps a maid for his daughter,—you have not arrived at that dignity, mother mine?"

"I do not think the maid for my daughter will cost more than one fast horse, Eugene."

"O boys, do not quarrel!" entreats their mother.

"I hope I shall never quarrel," says Floyd, in a steadfast, reassuring tone. "I could lay down my father's charge, he gives me that privilege if I find I cannot save the business without spending my private fortune. If you would rather have me withdraw——"

"Oh, no! no!" cries his mother. She has felt for some time that they were steadily going to ruin under Eugene's régime, but he is her idol and she loves him with a curious pride that could deny him nothing; would not even blame him, and wishes him to be prosperous. "I really think you would have no right, Floyd."

"Then if I must work, if I must give my time, interest, and money, I shall have to know how everything stands. I shall have to provide to the best of my judgment. You must all trust in me, and believe that I am acting for your welfare."

There is no affirmative to this, and Floyd feels really hurt. Eugene sits rolling the corner of the rug under his foot with a kind of vicious force, and is sulkily silent.

"Your father expected, Floyd——" and Mrs. Grandon buries her face in her hands, giving way to tears.

"My dear mother, I shall do everything my father desired, if it is in my power. Eugene," suddenly, "how does Mr. Wilmarth propose to meet this note?"

"Don't worry about the note. You must admit that he knows more about the business than you."

"Very well," Floyd returns, with ominous calmness. "I will pay up the house bills to-morrow, and there will be no change until after Laura's marriage. Let us remember that our interests are identical, that one cannot suffer without the other. Good night."

He bends over to kiss his mother, and leaves the room. He had never mistrusted before that his soul was unduly sensitive, his temper bad, his patience of a poor quality. He is tempted to make a rush back to the old, free, wandering life. But if he does, the family portion will be ruin. He cannot be indifferent to their welfare, nor to the fact that if events go wrongly he will be blamed.

He goes at the business promptly the next morning. With Mr. Conner's assistance he pays Marcia's and Gertrude's portion, and reinvests it. They can have the interest or squander the principal. He calls on several tradesmen and takes their receipts. The note is still a matter of perplexity, and Mr. Connery is appointed to confer with the holder and ask him to meet Mr. Floyd Grandon. Then he settles about a strip of land for which he has been offered a fabulous sum, it seems to him. This will give him all the ready money he will need at present.

Marcia is effusively grateful. "You dear, dear Floyd!" And she kisses him with the ardor of sixteen. "Now I can have a glorious summer. A party of us planned an artistic tour, camping out, living with Nature, and wresting her secrets of tone and color from her, studying in the dim, cathedral like recesses of the woods, apart from the glare and conventionalism of the heartless world——"

"I want you to understand this matter," interrupts Grandon. "It is an excellent investment. Very few sure things pay eight per cent. You will have just four hundred dollars a year for pin money," laughingly. "I think I had better lend you a little at present, so that you will not need to break into your principal. How much will this summering cost?"

"Oh," says Marcia, airily, "two hundred, perhaps. We shall be simple and frugal."

"Then I will write a check for that." He smiles a little to himself. Has any member of the family the least idea of the value of money?

Gertrude is surprised and frightened. "I'm sure, Floyd," and she is half crying, "that I don't want to go away. If you did marry I should never meddle or make trouble, but I would like to stay. Any room would do for me, and a few books——"

"I'm not married yet," he replies, rather brusquely. Do they suppose he means to turn them all out of the house the very first thing?

Laura and madame come home that evening, and the young girl is in a whirl of delight. Madame Lepelletier is the incarnation of all the virtues and graces. They have done wonders in shopping. Such robes, such marvels, such satins and laces and delights dear to the feminine eye, and not half the money spent! Laura's joy raises the depressing atmosphere of the house. Then madame has offered to supervise the workwomen at home, and altogether Laura will be a gorgeous bride.

Floyd hunts up his trinkets. There is an elegant lapis-lazuli necklace, there are some curious Egyptian bracelets, with scarabæi that will render her the envy of her little world. There are some unset emeralds, opals, and various curious gems of more value to a cabinet than to a woman of fashion. A few diamonds and sapphires, but these he shall save for Cecil.

Laura helps herself plentifully, and Marcia is tempted by a few. Madame Lepelletier would like to check this lavish generosity; there may be some one beside Cecil, one day. Floyd Grandon puzzles her. As a general thing she has found men quite ready to go down to her, sometimes when they had no right. But she decides within herself that his affairs need a mistress at their head, that his child will be quite spoiled by the exclusive attention he gives her, and that she could minister wisely and well. She is a prudent and ambitious woman. She does not sow money broadcast like the Grandon girls, but gets the full worth of it everywhere. More than all, Floyd Grandon has stirred her very being. In those old days she might have liked him, now she could love him with all the depth of a woman's soul. Her French marriage never touched her very deeply, so she seems quite heart-free, ready to begin from the very first of love and sound the notes through the whole octave.

But Floyd keeps so curiously out of the way. His study is so apart, he is writing, or out on business, or walking with Cecil. There is a good deal of company in the evening, but he manages to be engaged. At times she fairly hates this wedding fuss over which she smiles so serenely.

"Eugene," Floyd begins, one morning, "I have just had a note from Briggs & Co. One member of the firm will be here to-morrow. I have advised them that their money is in Mr. Connery's hands, and I pay the note for Grandon & Co. When Mr. St. Vincent returns we will go over matters thoroughly and see what state the business really is in."

Eugene has turned red and pale, and now his face is very white and his eyes flash with anger.

"I told you to let that alone!" he flings out. "All the arrangements have been made. Wilmarth has the money."

"I prefer to loan it, instead of having Wilmarth."

"You can't, you shall not," declares Eugene. "I have—the thing is settled. You have no real business with the firm's affairs."

"You are mistaken there. You have admitted that there was barely enough coming in to pay current expenses, and nothing toward meeting the note. You cannot mortgage or dispose of any part without my advice or consent. I can offer this loan, which I do for a number of years, then there will be no pressing demand——"

Eugene looks thunderstruck; no other word expresses the surprise and alarm.

"You cannot do it!" he says hoarsely, "because—because—well, I hate the whole thing! I've no head for it! You will have to know to-morrow; I have sold half my share to Wilmarth."

"For what amount?" quietly asks the elder brother.

"Twelve thousand dollars."

Floyd has had one talk with Wilmarth of an extremely discouraging nature. Now it seems to him if Wilmarth is willing to invest more deeply, he cannot consider it quite hopeless. He does distrust the man.

"You cannot do this, Eugene. In the first place, the half-share is not yours, until the legacies have been paid."

"They never can be! I would take Wilmarth's word as soon as yours. There is no use worrying and scrimping and going without everything for the sake of the others."

"For shame, Eugene. But fortunately the law has to settle this, not any individual preference. Let us go to Mr. Connery at once."

"I shall keep to my bargain, to my word," says Eugene, with sullen persistence. "I don't want any advice, and the thing is done."

"Then it will have to be undone, that is all."

Eugene rushes out of the room. Floyd immediately starts for the lawyer's, and after a discussion they seek an interview with Mr. Wilmarth. The whole transaction is a fraudulent one, and Mr. Connery will invoke the aid of the law if there is no other way out.

Mr. Wilmarth is taken very much by surprise, that they can both see. His first attitude looks like battle. Mr. Connery makes a brief and succinct statement, explaining what he puts very graciously as a mistake or an informality, and Wilmarth listens attentively.

"Gentlemen," he says, with a great effort at suavity, "this was young Mr. Grandon's offer. I may as well explain to you," with a stinging emphasis, "that he is a good deal in debt and needs money. I should have held this share subject to some demands, of course. Three thousand five hundred was to go to his share of the note, and the rest was to be subject to his call at any time."

Floyd Grandon is so incensed that he shows his hand incautiously.

"Mr. Wilmarth, I offer you twelve thousand dollars for your quarter-share," he says.

"Mr. Grandon, I beg leave to decline it."

The two men measure each other. They will always be antagonistic.

"What will you take to dispose of it?"

"It is not for sale."

"Then you must have faith in the ultimate recovery of the business."

"Not necessarily. If I choose to risk my money it is my own affair. I have no family to impoverish. And all business is a risk, a species of gambling. You stake your money against the demand for a certain line of goods, red, we will say. The ball rises and lo, it is white, but you whistle 'better luck next time.'"

Mr. Connery has been thinking. "So you expected to take half the amount of the note out of Mr. Eugene's quarter-share?" he says.

Wilmarth starts, then puts on an air of surprise that is quite evident to the others.

"That is a mistake," he admits frankly. "No doubt we should have found it out in the course of settlement. I trusted most of this matter to Eugene, and he surely should not have wronged himself. But it is all of no consequence now; as well tear up the memorandum. But, Mr. Grandon, if you are to be your brother's banker, may I trouble you to settle these?"

He hands Floyd three notes. They aggregate nearly two thousand dollars. Floyd Grandon folds them without a motion of surprise, and promises to attend to them to-morrow, when the note is taken up.

"Your brother has not your father's head for business," Wilmarth says, with scarcely concealed contempt.

"No. It is quite a matter of regret, since it was to be his portion."

"To-morrow we will meet here for the settlement of the note," announces Mr. Connery. Then they say good morning with outward politeness.

Wilmarth's eyes follow Grandon's retreating figure. He has mistaken his man, a thing he seldom does; but Floyd's antecedents, his refinement, and scholarly predilections have misled him into believing he could be as easily managed as Eugene. Wilmarth has given his adversary one advantage which he bitterly regrets. When Eugene named half for his share of the note he had let it go, and in the two or three after-references Eugene clearly had not seen it. Wilmarth had repeated the statement carelessly, and now he would give much to recall it, though otherwise it might have gone without a thought.

Eugene absents himself all day. Mrs. Grandon is much distressed, but she is afraid to question Floyd. Even the next morning they merely nod carelessly, and no word is said until Floyd brings home the notes.

"Have you any more debts?" Floyd asks in a quiet tone, which he means to be kindly as well.

"No." Then curiosity gets the better of the young man. "Was there an awful row, Floyd?"

"Mr. Wilmarth, of course, saw the utter impossibility of any such agreement. Eugene," slowly, "is there anything you would like better than the business?"

"No business at all," answers Eugene, with audacious frankness. "I really haven't any head for it."

"But you understand—something, surely? You can—keep books, for instance? What did you do in father's time?"

"Made myself generally useful. Wrote letters and carried messages and went to the city," is the laconic reply.

Floyd is so weary and discouraged that something in his face touches Eugene.

"I wish you wanted to take my mare, Beauty, for part of this," he says, hesitatingly. "She cost me a thousand dollars, but I won back three hundred on the first race. She's gentle, too, and a saddle horse, that is, for a man. You would like her, I know."

Floyd considers a moment. "Yes," he makes answer, and hands Eugene the largest note, which balances it. "Make me out a bill of sale," he adds.

"You're a good fellow, Floyd, and I'm obliged."

For a moment Floyd Grandon feels like giving his younger brother some good advice, then he realizes the utter hopelessness of it. Nothing will sink into Eugene's mind, it is all surface. It may be that Wilmarth's influence is not a good thing for a young man. How has his father been so blinded?

"That man is a villain," Connery had said when they left the factory. "It will be war between you, and you had better get him out if it is possible."

Floyd sighs now, thinking of all the perplexities. What is Mr. St. Vincent like? Will there be trouble in this direction as well?

He has deputed Connery to find him some efficient mechanician to go over the factory and see what can be done. Surely Wilmarth cannot oppose anything for their united interest, unless, indeed, he means to ruin if he cannot rule. There is a misgiving in Floyd's mind that he is purposely allowing everything to depreciate with a view of getting it cheaply into his own hands. Floyd has the capacity of being roused, "put on his mettle," and now he resolves, distasteful as it is, to fight it through.

[ ]

CHAPTER VI.

There is a ripe season for everything: if you slip that, or anticipate it, you dim the grace of the matter.—Bishop Hackett.

A rather curious lull falls in factory affairs. Mr. Wilmarth is gone almost a fortnight. Floyd makes the acquaintance of the superintendent, and finds him an intelligent man, but rather opposed to the new system of machinery.

"We were making money before," he says. "I like to let well alone, but Mr. Grandon, your father, was wonderfully taken with St. Vincent's ideas. They're good enough, but no better than the old. We gain here, and lose there. Of course if it was all as St. Vincent represents, there would be a fortune in it,—carpet weaving would be revolutionized. But I am afraid there is some mistake."

Mr. Lindmeyer comes up and spends two days watching the working. He is very much impressed with some of the ideas. If he could see Mr. St. Vincent.

Mr. St. Vincent is ill, but expects to be sufficiently recovered to return soon.

All these matters occupy a good deal of Floyd Grandon's time. Cecil learns to do without him and allow herself to be amused by Jane and Auntie Gertrude, who is her favorite. Marcia teases her by well-meant but very injudicious attention. Guests and friends come and go, wedding gifts begin to be sent in, and that absorbing air of half-mystery pervades every place.

They have all come to adore Madame Lepelletier. Even Mrs. Grandon is slowly admitting to herself that Floyd could not do better, and half resigns herself to the inevitable second place. Laura takes up the idea with the utmost enthusiasm. Gertrude does not share in this general worship; she is too listless, and there is a feeling of being distanced so very far that it is uncomfortable.

Strange to say, with all her irresistible tenderness she has not won Cecil. She feels curiously jealous of this little rival, who, wrapped in a shawl, often falls asleep on her father's knee in the evening. He always takes her to drive, whoever else goes; and it comes to be a matter of course that Cecil has the sole right to him when he is in the house and not writing.

There has been so much summer planning. Laura wants madame to come to Newport for a month, and partly extorts a promise from Floyd that he will give her at least a week. Marcia's "hermits" come up to talk over Maine and the Adirondacks and Lake George, and finally settle upon the latter. Their nearest neighbors, the Brades, own a cottage in the vicinity, and beg Mrs. Grandon and madame and Eugene to bestow upon them a week or two. Miss Lucia Brade is extremely sweet upon Eugene, who thrives upon admiration, but has a fancy for laying his own at madame's feet.

"Why did you not escort that pretty Miss Brade home?" she says one evening, when Lucia has been sent in the carriage.

"Why? because my charm was here," he answers audaciously, imprinting a kiss upon her fair hand.

"You foolish boy. And I am too tired to remain. I should be dull company unless you want to walk."

There is the wandering scent of a cigar in the shrubbery, and they may meet Floyd, who has absented himself since dinner.

Eugene goes for her shawl and they take a little ramble. He is very averse to finding his brother, and madame tires even of the gentle promenade.

But the next morning her star is surely in the ascendant. Cecil sleeps late. Floyd is down on the porch, reading and smoking, when the flutter of a diaphanous robe, with billowy laces, attracts his eyes and he smiles an invitation.

"Shall I intrude?" The voice is soft, with a half-entreaty almost as beguiling as Cecil's.

"Indeed, no." There is something wistful in her face, and he gives a graceful invitation with his hand to a seat beside him. She is so royally beautiful this morning, with her fresh, clear skin, the rose-tint on her cheek, her deep, dewy eyes, that still have a slumbrous light in them, the exquisite turn of the throat, and the alluring smile.

"Do you know," she begins, in the seductive tone to which one can but choose to listen,—"do you know that if you had not the burden of Atlas upon your shoulders, I should feel tempted to add just a very little to a smaller burthen."

"My shoulders are broad, you see," and he laughs with an unusual lightness. Somehow he feels happy this morning, as if it was to be a fortunate day. "You have been so kind to Laura, that if we could do anything in return——"

"Oh, women take naturally to weddings, you know! And Laura is such a sweet girl, but so young! I seem ages older. And, shall I come to the point,—I want to establish myself. I cannot always be accepting the hospitality of my dearest friends, and I have a longing for a home. You see American ways have spoiled me already." And she raises her deep, languorous eyes.

"A home?"

"Yes." She laughs a little now. "And I need some sort of banking arrangement, as well as security for valuable papers. I am quite a stranger, you know, and have no relatives."

"Well, you must take us," he answers, in a frank way. "You do not mean a home quite by yourself?"

"Why not? I am tired of hotels and rooms. I want a pretty place, with some congenial friend, where I can call together choice spirits, musical, literary, and artistic, where I can be gay or quiet, read the livelong day if I like." And she smiles again, with an enchanting grace. "I suppose New York would be better for winter. I should have dear Laura to commence with, and not feel quite so lonely. You see, now, I really do want to be anchored to some sort of steadfastness, to do something with my life and my means, even if it is only making a pretty and congenial place in the world where some tired wayfarer may come in and rest. We are so prodigal in youth," and she sighs with seductive regret, while her beautiful eyes droop; "we scatter or throw away the pearls offered us, and later we are glad to go over the way and gather them up, if haply no other traveller has been before us."

He is thinking,—not of the past, as she hopes,—but of her gifts for making an elegant home. His sisters seem crude and untrained beside her. He can imagine such a lovely place with her in the centre, the Old World refinement grafted on the new vigor and earnest purpose.

"Yes," he answers, rousing himself. She sees the effort, and allows a thrill to speed along her pulses. "But—there is no haste, surely? You would not want to go to the city until cool weather. I hope to be there a good deal myself this winter. I have some plans,—if I can ever get this business off my mind."

There is a curious little exultation in her heart now, but her moods and features are well trained. Her face is full of sympathy as she raises her beguiling eyes.

"It is a difficult place to fill, to give satisfaction," she says, "and you are so new to business. As I remember, you did not like it in the old days."

"No." He gives a short laugh. "And, thinking of myself, I find more excuse for Eugene's distaste. Yet if I were to let it go, the family fortunes would go with it, and I might justly be blamed. I must keep it for the year, at all events."

"Is it—very bad?" she asks, timidly.

"I cannot seem to get any true understanding of the case. When Mr. St. Vincent comes back we shall go at it in real earnest. And, in any event, your portion shall be made safe."

"Oh, do not think of that, it is such a mere trifle! I supposed mamma had drawn it all out until I looked over her papers. Then I had a notice of the settlement, but I should have come home in any event. I had grown tired of Europe, very tired. I dare say you think me ennuied, whimsical."

"Indeed, I do not," warmly. "Home is to a woman what the setting is to a diamond. And though the advice of such a rambler may not be worth much, still, whatever I can do——"

He pauses and his eye rests upon her, takes in her exceeding beauty, grace, and repose; the admirable fitness for every little exigency that society training gives. She seems a part of the morning picture, and akin to the fresh, odorous air, the soft yet glowing sun, the rippling river, the changeful melody of flitting birds. He is fresh now, not vexed and nervous with the cares of the day; he has been reading an old poet, too, which has softened him.

An oriole perches on the tree near him and begins an enchanting song. Both turn, and she leans over the railing, still in range of his eyes. He remembers like a sudden flash that they were here years ago, planning, dreaming, hoping, she his promised wife. Does it stir his soul? Was that merely a young man's fancy for a pretty girl, engendered by friendly companionship? She glances up so quickly that he flushes and is half ashamed of speculating upon her.

"It is delightful! Ah, I do not wonder you love this morning hour, when beauty reigns supreme, before the toil and moil of the world has begun. It stirs one's heart to worship. And yet we, senseless creatures, dance through starry midnights in hot rooms, and waste such heavenly hours in stupid slumber. Do you wonder that I am tired of it all?"

"Papa, papa!" Cecil comes dancing like a sprite of the morning, and clasping his hand, springs upon his knee, burying her face in his beard, her soft lips sweet with kisses. Then as if remembering, turns, says, "Good morning, madame," with a grave inclination of the head, and nestles down on his lap. Madame could strangle her, but she smiles sweetly, and speaks with subtle tenderness in which there is a touch of longing. Floyd wonders again how it is that Cecil is blind to all this attraction.

Then the conversation drops to commonplaces, and the breakfast-bell rings. There is so much to do. To-morrow is the wedding morning, and the guests will begin to come to-day. Floyd will give up one of his rooms and take Cecil. Eugene is in his glory, and is really much more master of ceremonies than Floyd can be. There is nothing but flurry and excitement, but madame keeps cool as an angel. Mrs. Vandervoort and Mrs. Latimer, the bridegroom's sisters, both elegant society women, do not in the least shine her down, and are completely captivated by her.

"Of course she must come to Newport, Laura," says Mrs. Vandervoort. "She is trained to enjoy just such society. And next winter she will be the social success of the city. I delight in American belles," says this patriotic woman, who has been at nearly every court in Europe, and can still appreciate her own countrywomen, "but they do need judicious foreign training."

The wedding morning dawns auspiciously. The house is sweet with flowers. Gertrude is roused from her apathy, and looks an interesting invalid. Marcia is airy and childish, Madame Lepelletier simply magnificent, and the bride extremely handsome in dead white silk and tulle, with clusters of natural rosebuds.

Floyd gives the bride away, and, much moved, breathes a prayer for her happiness. The vows are said; they come home to an elegant wedding breakfast, managed by colored waiters who know their business perfectly. There are some friendly, informal neighborhood calls, and all is very gay and bright. Eugene, Marcia, and the Brades are going up the river with them; Mr. and Mrs. Delancy will travel leisurely through Canada and come down to Newport to be Mrs. Vandervoort's guests for the remainder of the summer. Madame Lepelletier has some business to settle, and will rejoin them as soon as possible.

There is very great confusion afterwards, but by dusk matters get pretty well settled in their olden channel. Madame declares it an extremely pretty wedding, and praises Laura's self-command, which, after all, was largely compounded of perfect satisfaction.

And now there will be a lull, and it shall go hard indeed if Madame Lepelletier cannot use some charm to draw this indifferent man towards her. She is beginning to hate the child who always rivals her; but certainly she can circumvent the little thing when she has all her time to herself and can use her eyes for her own advantage.

It seems odd to have such a small, quiet breakfast-table, to see his mother in her black gown again, and Gertrude's morning dress tied with black ribbons. They all talk rather languidly, when an interruption occurs. Briggs brings in a note for Mr. Grandon.

"An old woman brought it," he announces, "and she is waiting outside for an answer. She would not come in."

Floyd remarks that it is unsealed. Its contents are brief, but written in a fine, irregular hand.

"Will Mr. Grandon come at once to Mr. St. Vincent, who is ill in bed?"

Grandon rises suddenly and goes out. On the wide step of the porch sits the old housekeeper, but she glances up with dark, bright eyes.

"You will come?" she begins, eagerly.

"Yes. When did Mr. St. Vincent return?"

"Last night. He is very ill." Her wrinkled lips quiver and she picks nervously at her shawl. "They came to New York, but the journey was too much. He has been there two days with no one but the child, my poor ma'm'selle."

"Yes. I shall be glad enough to see him. Wait a moment," as she rises. "I shall drive over immediately, and it will save you a long walk."

"Oh, no, sir. I can walk."

"You will wait," he says. "Briggs, order the buggy at once. Jane," as the girl comes out on the porch, "take good care of Miss Cecil to-day. Do not let her annoy any one, for everybody is tired." Then he goes in and makes a brief explanation, kisses Cecil, and is off to the waiting vehicle, into which he hands the old woman with the politeness he would show to a queen.

Madame Lepelletier is extremely annoyed. She has counted on a long, idle morning. She has papers for him to overlook, plans to discuss, and now she must spend the time alone.

"Is Mr. St. Vincent's complaint serious?" Floyd asks of the quaint figure beside him.

A tremor runs over her and the bright eyes fill with tears. "It is his heart," she says, with her formal pronunciation. "It has been bad a long, long while, but never like this. You see he never rested here," tapping her forehead. "Day and night, day and night, always working and studying, and letting his bouillon and tea get cold, and forgetting all. I made the house bright and cheerful for ma'm'selle, and I thought he might be happy, a little more at rest; but oh, kind Heaven! it is not the rest I hoped."

Grandon is quite shocked. St. Vincent's death may complicate matters still more. Then he checks his own selfish thought.

"Can I drive in?" he asks.

"Oh, yes, there is a little stable. Master meant to get ma'm'selle a pony. Poor girl!"

They both alight. Floyd fastens the horse and follows his guide.

"Monsieur will please walk up stairs,—this way."

The hall is small, square, and dark. He treads upon a rich Smyrna rug that is like velvet. The stairs are winding and of some dark wood. A door stands open and she waves him thither with her hand. In this very room he has watched a student working. Here was the table, as if it had only been left yesterday.

He hears voices in the adjoining room and presently the door opens. The furniture is dark and antique, brightened by a few rugs and one glowing picture of sunset that seems to irradiate the whole apartment. The occupant of the bed appears almost in a sitting position, propped up by pillows, marble pale, and thin to attenuation. One wasted hand lies over the spread, handsome enough for a woman, and not showing the thinness as much as the face. The eyes are deeply sunken, but with a feverish brightness.

"Mr. Grandon, I thank you most kindly for your quick response. Sit down here.—Now you can leave us, Denise. I shall want nothing but my drops."

"I am afraid you are hardly able——"

"Mr. Grandon, when a man's life comes to be told off by days, he must do his work quickly, not daring to count on any future. I had hoped—but we must to business. Come nearer. Sit there in the light. No, you are not much like your father, and yet totally unlike your brother. I think I can trust you. I must, for there is nothing left, nothing!"

"You can trust me," Floyd Grandon says, in a tone that at once establishes confidence.

"And one could trust your father to the uttermost. If he had but lived!"

"No one regrets that more bitterly than I, and I thank you for the kindly praise."

"A good man, a just man. And now he has left all to you, and it is a strange, tangled mass. I meant to help, but alas, I shall soon be beyond help." And the brow knits itself in anxious lines, while the eyes question with a vague fear.

"If you could explain a little of the trouble. I am no mechanic, and yet I have dabbled into scientific matters. But you are too ill."

A spasm passes over his face, leaving it blue and pinched, and St. Vincent makes a gasp for breath.

"No. I shall never be better. Do not be alarmed, that was only a trifle. You have seen Wilmarth, and he has told you; but the thing is not a failure, it cannot be! There were some slight miscalculations which I have remedied. If I could find some one to whom I could explain my plans——"

"I know a man. I have had him at the factory and he would be glad to see you. He does not quite understand, but he believes it can be made a success. Wilmarth seems doubtful and strange in some ways——"

"He is working against me,—no need to tell me that! But why?" And the eager eyes study Grandon painfully. "There is some plan in the man's brain. He came to Canada. Do you know what for?"

Grandon looks up in surprise.

"I was amazed. The man may have a better heart or more faith than I credit him with. He was so different in your father's time. It is as if some project or temptation had seized him." Then, after a pause, "He asked my daughter in marriage."

"I thought she was—a child," says Grandon, in amaze.

"So she is. In my country, Mr. Grandon, they manage their daughters differently; not always better, perhaps, but they do not leave them unprotected to the world, to beg their bit of bread, maybe. I have put everything in my invention. It is her dowry."

"And he wished to be the sole master of it?"

"Exactly. She saw him once." And a bitter smile wreaths the deathly face.

"And she does not like him! How could any woman?" Floyd Grandon gives a shiver of disgust.

"I have not told her. Yet a man cannot leave a young girl to make a tiger's fight with the world! She, poor lamb, would soon be rent in pieces."

"Leave her to my care," says Floyd Grandon. "I have a mother and sisters, and a little girl of my own whom I love as my life. Let me take her and do the best I can with her fortune."

"You are very kind. There is one other way. Is your brother at home?"

"He went away yesterday." Floyd almost guesses at what will follow.

"I have a proposal to make. Let him marry my daughter. You are head of the house now, and have the welfare of your family at heart. She is sweet, accomplished, pretty. He will listen to you, and you see it will be to his interest. You can fight Wilmarth then; you will have the best in your own hands."

Floyd Grandon sits in stupid amaze. It might be for Eugene's interest, but the young man would never consent. And a mere business marriage without love—no, he cannot approve.

"This surprises you, no doubt. When I reached New York I was very ill again. I made the physician tell me the truth. I cannot live a month; I may die any day, but it would be horrible to leave my child to battle with poverty, unsuccess. If he was to make a fortune he might go into it with a better heart, you know. And your brother is so young. He would be good to her. Not that I fancy Jasper Wilmarth could be cruel to a pretty young girl who would bring him a fortune."

Floyd Grandon rises and begins to pace the floor. Then he stops as suddenly. "Pardon me, I annoy you, but——"

"You think it all strange. It is not your way of doing things. When I saw the young girl I made my wife, I had no word for her delicate ear until her parents had consented and betrothed her. And I loved her—God only knows how dearly. She died in my arms, loath to go. But your young people, they love to-day and marry with no consultation, they quarrel and are divorced. Is it any better?"

"No," Floyd Grandon answers honestly. "But—I do not know my brother's views——"

"You will write to him. You will explain. Your father, it is said, left all things in your hands. He had confidence, trust. I trust you as well."

"I will do the best I can, and we may find some other way if this fails."

"And you spoke of some person——"

"My lawyer found a young man, a foreigner, Lindmeyer by name. He seems very ingenious. If you will let me bring him?"

"I shall be most glad."

Even as he speaks he throws up his arms with a sudden gasp and motions to the bell. Denise answers the summons. Her master has fainted, and after some moments she restores him.

"I have talked too long," exclaims Grandon, remorsefully.

"No. Some one must know all this before I can die at peace. Find your man and bring him here. And if you should see Wilmarth, do not mention that I have returned. I must have some quiet. Thank you again for coming. And may I hope to see you to-morrow?"

"Yes," answers Floyd, taking the feeble hand. Then he turns to the door, bids the old housekeeper good day, and finds his way out alone, with a strange feeling, as if he were taking a part in a play, almost a tragedy.

He drives straight to Connery and learns that Lindmeyer's address is New York. He will not wait for a letter to reach him, and just pausing at the stable to take in Briggs, goes at once to the station.

It is a long, bothersome quest. The young man does not come home at noon, so he waits awhile and then sets off in search of him, making two calls just after he has left the places, but at last success crowns his efforts. But Lindmeyer cannot come up the next day. There is an expert trial of some machinery for which he is engaged at ten. It may take two or three hours, it may hold him all day.

"Come back with me, then," says Floyd. "You can go over a little this evening, and keep it in your mind, then you can return when you are through. I want the matter settled, and the man's life hangs on a mere thread."

Lindmeyer consents, and they travel up together. The day is at its close as they reach the little nest on the cliffs, but Denise gives Grandon a more than friendly welcome.

"He is better," she says. "He will be so glad. Go right up to him."

He does not look better, but his voice is stronger. "And I had such a nice sleep this afternoon," he says. "I feel quite like a new being, and able to entertain your friend. How good you are to a dying man, Mr. Grandon."

Quite in the evening Floyd leaves them together and returns home. Cecil has cried herself to sleep in the vain effort to keep awake. Madame Lepelletier assumes her most beguiling smile, and counts on an hour or two, but he excuses himself briefly. The letter to Eugene must be written this evening, though he knows as well what the result will be as if he held the answer in his hand.

A little later he lights a cigar and muses over the young girl whose fate has thus strangely been placed in his hands. He is not anxious to marry her to Eugene; but, oh, the horrible sacrifice of such a man as Wilmarth! No, it shall not be.

[ ]

CHAPTER VII.

Love is forever and divinely new.—Montgomery.

Floyd Grandon, who always sleeps the sleep of the just, or the traveller who learns to sleep under all circumstances, is restless and tormented with vague dreams. Some danger or vexation seems to menace him continually. He rises unrefreshed, and Cecil holds a dainty baby grudge against him for his neglect of yesterday, and makes herself undeniably tormenting, until she is sent away in disgrace.

Madame Lepelletier rather rejoices in this sign. "You are not always to rule him, little lady," she thinks in her inmost soul. He explains briefly to his mother that Mr. St. Vincent is very ill, and that urgent business demands his attention, and is off again.

Somehow he fears Lindmeyer's verdict very much. If there should be some mistake, some weak point, the result must be failure for all concerned. Would Wilmarth still desire to marry Miss St. Vincent? he wonders.

Denise receives him with a smile in her bright eyes.

"He is very comfortable," she says, and Grandon takes heart.

Lindmeyer is waiting for him. His rather intense face is hopeful; and Grandon's spirits go up.

"The thing must be a success," he says. "Mr. St. Vincent has explained two or three little mistakes, or miscalculations, rather, and given me his ideas. I wish I had time to take it up thoroughly. But I have to leave town for several days. Could you wait, think? I am coming again to-night. What a pity such a brain must go back to ashes! He is not an old man, either, but he has worn hard on himself. There, my time is up," glancing at his watch.

Mr. St. Vincent receives Mr. Grandon with evident pleasure, but it seems as if he looks thinner and paler than yesterday. There is a feverish eagerness in his eyes, a tremulousness in his voice. The doctor is to be up presently, and Grandon is persuaded to wait. After the first rejoicing is over, Grandon will not allow him to talk business, but taking up Goethe reads to him. The tense, worn face softens. Now and then he drops into a little doze. He puts his hand out to Grandon with a grateful smile, and so the two sit until nearly noon, when the doctor comes.

Floyd follows him down-stairs.

"Don't ask me to reconsider my verdict," he says, in answer to the other's look. "The issues of life and death are not in our hands. If you really understood his state, you would wonder that he is still alive. Keep all bad tidings from him," the doctor adds rather louder to Denise. "Tell him pleasurable things only; keep him cheerful. It cannot be for very long. And watch him well."

"Where is Miss St. Vincent?" asks Grandon, with a very pardonable curiosity.

"She has gone out. He will have it so. She does not dream the end is so near." And Denise wipes her old eyes. "Mr. Grandon, is it possible that dreadful man must marry her?"

"Oh, I hope not!"

"He is very determined. And ma'm'selle has been brought up to obey, not like your American girls. If her father asked her to go through fire, she would, for his sake. And in a convent they train girls to marry and to respect their husbands, not to dream about gay young lovers. But my poor lamb! to be given to such a man, and she so young!"

"No, do not think of it," Grandon says, huskily.

"You shall see her this evening, sir, if you will come. I will speak to master."

Grandon goes on to the factory. Wilmarth is away, and he rambles through the place, questioning the workmen. There are some complaints. The wool is not as good as it was formerly, and the new machinery bothers. The foreman does not seem to understand it, and is quite sure it is a failure. Mr. Wilmarth has no confidence in it, he says.

Then Grandon makes a thorough inspection of some old books. They certainly did make money in his father's time, but expenses of late have been much larger. Why are they piling up goods in the warehouse and not trying to sell? It seems to him as if there was no real head to the business. Can it be that he must take this place and push matters through to a successful conclusion? It seems to him that he could really do better than has been done for the last six months.

It is mid-afternoon when he starts homeward. He will take the old rambling path and rest his weary brain a little before he presents himself to madame. She has a right to feel quite neglected, and yet how can he play amiable with all this on his mind? He wipes his brow, and sits down on a mossy rock, glancing over opposite. Did any one ever paint such light and shade, such an atmosphere? How still the trees are! There is not a breath of air, the river floats lazily, undisturbed by a ripple. There is a little boat over in the shade, and the man who was fishing has fallen asleep.

Hark! There is a sudden cry and a splash. Has some one fallen in the river, or is it boys on a bathing frolic? He leans over the edge of the cliff, where he can command a sight of the river, but there is nothing save one eddy on the shore where no one could drown. And yet there are voices, a sound of distress, it seems to him, so he begins to scramble down. A craggy point jutting out shuts off the view of a little cove, and he turns his steps thitherward. Just as he gains the point he catches sight of a figure threading its way up among the rocks.

"Keep perfectly still." The wind wafts the sound up to him, and there is something in the fresh young voice that attracts him. "I am coming. Don't stir or you will fall again. Wait, wait, wait!" She almost sings the last words with a lingering cadence.

He is coming so much nearer that he understands her emprise. A child has fallen and has slipped a little way down the bank, where a slender birch sapling has caught her, and she is quite wedged in. The tree sways and bends, the child begins to cry. The roots surely are giving way, and if the child should fall again she will go over the rocks, down on the stony shore. Floyd Grandon watches in a spell-bound way, coming nearer, and suddenly realizes that the tree will give way before he can reach her. But the girl climbs up from rock to rock, until she is almost underneath, then stretches out her arms.

"I shall pull you down here," she says. "There is a place to stand. Let go of everything and come."

The tree itself lets go, but it still forms a sort of bridge, over which the child comes down, caught in the other's arms. She utters a little shriek, but she is quite safe. Her hat has fallen off, and goes tumbling over the rocks. He catches a glint of fair hair, of a sweet face he knows so well, and his heart for a moment stops its wonted beating.

He strides over to them as if on the wings of the wind. They go down a little way, when they pause for strength. Cecil is crying now.

"Cecil," he cries in a sharp tone,—"Cecil, how came you here?"

Cecil buries her face in her companion's dress and clings passionately to her. The girl, who is not Jane, covers her with a defiant impulse of protection, and confronts the intruder with a brave, proud face of gypsy brilliance, warm, subtile, flushing, spirited, as if she questioned his right to so much as look at the child.

"Cecil, answer me! How came you here?" The tone of authority is deepened by the horrible fear speeding through his veins of what might have happened.

"You shall not scold her!" She looks like some wild, shy animal protecting its young, as she waves him away imperiously with her little hand. "How could she know that the treacherous top of the cliff would give way? She was a good, obedient child to do just what I told her, and it saved her. See how her pretty hands are all scratched, and her arm is bleeding."

He kneels at the feet of his child's brave savior, and clasps his arms around Cecil. "My darling," and there is almost a sob in his voice, "my little darling, do not be afraid. Look at papa. He is so glad to find you safe."

"Is she your child,—your little girl?" And the other peers into his face with incredulous curiosity.

Cecil answers by throwing herself into his arms.

"She is my one treasure in this world," Floyd Grandon exclaims with deep fervor.

He holds her very tight. She is sobbing hysterically now, but he kisses her with such passionate tenderness, that though her heart still beats with terror, she is not afraid of his anger.

The young girl stands in wondering amaze, her velvety brown eyes lustrous with emotion. Lithe, graceful, with a supple strength in every rounded limb, in the slightly compressed red lips, the broad, dimpled chin, and the straight, resolute brows. The quaint gray costume, nun-like in its plainness, cannot make a nun of her.

"You have saved my child!" and there is a great tremble in his voice. "I do not know how to thank you. I never can."

The statue moves a little, and the red lips swell, quiver, and yet she does not speak.

"I saw you from the cliff. I hardly know how you had the self-command, the forethought to do it."

"You will not scold her!" she entreats.

"My darling, no. For your sake, not a word shall be said."

"But I was naughty!" cries Cecil, in an agony of penitence. "I ran away from Jane."

Grandon sits down on the stump of a tree, and takes Cecil on his lap. Her little hands are scratched and soiled by the gravel, and her arm has quite a wound.

"Oh!" the young girl cries, "will you bring her up to the little cottage over yonder? You can just see the pointed roof. It is my home."

"You are Miss St. Vincent?" Grandon exclaims in surprise. He does not know quite what he has expected, but she is very different from any thought of his concerning her.

"Yes." She utters this with a simple, fearless dignity that would do credit to a woman of fashion. "Her hands had better be washed and her arm wrapped up. They will feel more comfortable."

"Thank you." Then he rises with Cecil in his arms, and makes a gesture to Miss St. Vincent, who settles her wide-brimmed hat that has slipped back, and goes on as a leader. She is so light, supple, and graceful! Her plain, loosely fitting dress allows the slim figure the utmost freedom. She is really taller than she looks, though she would be petite beside his sisters. Her foot and ankle are perfect, and the springy step is light as a fawn's.

This, then, is the girl whose future they have been discussing, whose hand has been disposed of in marriage as arbitrarily as if she were a princess of royal blood. If Eugene only would marry her! Fortune seems quite sure now, and he is not the man ever to work for it. It must come to him.

Once or twice Miss St. Vincent looks back, blushing brightly. She has a natural soft pink in her cheeks that seems like the heart of a rose, and the blush deepens the exquisite tint. They enter the shaded path, and she goes around to the side porch, where the boards have been scrubbed white as snow.

"O Denise," she exclaims, "will you get a basin of water and some old linen? This little girl has fallen and scratched her arms badly." Then, with a sudden accession of memory, she continues, "I believe it is the gentleman who has been to see papa."

"Mr. Grandon!" Denise says in amaze.

"Yes. Your young mistress has saved my little girl from what might have been a sad accident." And he stands Cecil on the speckless floor.

Miss St. Vincent throws off her hat. Denise brings some water in a small, old silver basin, and rummages for the linen. Grandon turns up the sleeve of his daughter's dress, and now Cecil begins to cry and shrink away from Denise.

"Let me," says the young girl, with that unconscious self-possession so becoming to her, and yet so far removed from boldness. "Now you are going to be very brave," she says to the child. "You know how you held on by the tree and did just as I told you, and now, after your hands are washed, they will feel so much better. It will hurt only a little, and you will be white and clean again."

She proceeds with her work as she talks. Cecil winces a little, and her eyes overflow with tears, but beyond an occasional convulsive sob she does not give way. The arm is bandaged with some cooling lotion, and Denise brings her mistress a little cream to anoint the scratched hands. Floyd Grandon has been watching the deft motions of the soft, swift fingers, that make a sort of dazzle of dimples. It certainly is a lovely hand.

"Now, does it not feel nice?" Then she washes the tears from the face, and wipes it with a soft towel that is like silk. "You were very good and brave."

Cecil, moved by some inward emotion, throws her arms around Miss St. Vincent's neck and kisses her. From a strange impulse the young girl blushes deeply and turns her face away from Grandon.

He has asked after Mr. St. Vincent, who is now asleep. He is no worse. Denise thinks him better. He has not fainted since morning.

"Cecil," her father says, "will you stay here and let me go home for the carriage? I am afraid I cannot carry you quite so far, and I dare say Jane is half crazy with alarm."

Cecil looks very much as if she could not consent to the brief separation. The young girl glances from one face to the other.

"Yes, you will stay," she answers, with cheerful decision. "Papa will soon return for you. Would you mind if I gave her some berries and milk?" she asks, rather timidly, of Mr. Grandon.

"Oh, no! I will soon come back." He stoops and kisses Cecil, and makes a slight signal to Denise, who follows him.

"She saved my darling from a great peril," he says, with deep emotion, "perhaps her very life. What can I do for her?"

"Keep her from that terrible marriage," returns Denise. "She is too sweet, too pretty for such an ogre."

"She shall not marry him, whatever comes," he says, decisively.

Walking rapidly homeward, he resolves to write again to Eugene. Miss St. Vincent is pretty, winsome, refined, spirited, too; quite capable of matching Eugene in dignity or pride, which would be so much the better. She is no "meke mayd" to be ground into a spiritless slave. They would have youth, beauty, wealth, be well dowered. He feels as anxious now as he has been disinclined before. A strange interest pervades him, and the rescue of the child brings her so near; it seems as if he could clasp her to his heart as an elder daughter or a little sister.

He meets Briggs on horseback, a short distance from the house. "O Mr. Grandon," the man exclaims, "the maid has just come in and Miss Cecil is lost!"

"Miss Cecil is safe. Get me the buggy at once. She is all right," as the man looks bewildered.

Just at the gate he meets the weeping and alarmed Jane and sends her back with a few words of comfort. The house is in a great commotion, which he quiets as speedily as possible. When Mrs. Grandon finds there is no real danger, she turns upon Floyd.

"You spoil the child with your foolish indulgence," she declares. "She pays no attention to any one, she does not even obey Jane."

Grandon cannot pause to argue, for the wagon comes around. He is in no mood, either. He cannot tell why, but he feels intuitively that Miss St. Vincent is quite different from the women in his family.

He finds everything quite delightful at the eyrie. Cecil and Miss Violet have made fast friends, and Duke, the greyhound, looks on approvingly, though with an amusing tint of jealousy. The child has forgotten her wounds, has had some berries, cake, and milk, and is chattering wonderfully.

"What magic have you used?" asks Grandon in surprise.

Miss St. Vincent laughs. She hardly looks a day over fifteen, though she is two years older.

"Will you not let her come for a whole day?" she entreats. "I get so lonesome. I can only see papa a little while, and he cannot talk to me. I get tired of reading and rambling about, and Denise is worried when I stay out any length of time."

"Yes, if you can persuade her," and Grandon smiles down into the bright, eager face. "In England she was with a family of children, and she misses them."

"Oh, are you English?" Violet asks, with a naive curiosity.

"My little girl was born there, but I always lived here until I went abroad, ten years ago."

"And I was born in France," she says, with a bright, piquant smile, "though that doesn't make me quite thoroughly French." Then, as by this time they have reached Cecil, she kneels down and puts her arm around her. "He says you may come for a whole long day. We will have tea out on the porch, and you shall play with my pretty china dishes and my great doll, and when you are tired we will swing in the hammock. Shall it be to-morrow?"

"I think she must rest to-morrow," Grandon replies, gravely.

"Oh, but the next day will be Sunday!"

"If she is well enough I will bring her in the morning," he answers, indulgently.

Violet kisses her and bundles her up in a white fleecy shawl. The sun has gone down and the air has cooled perceptibly. Cecil talks a while enthusiastically, as she snuggles close to her father in the wagon; then there is a sudden silence. She is so soundly asleep that her father carries her up and lays her on her pretty white cot without awaking her. Dinner has been kept waiting, and Mrs. Grandon is not in an angelic temper, but madame's exquisite suavity smooths over the rough places. Floyd feels extremely obliged for this little attention. He makes no demur when she claims him for the evening, and discusses the future, her future, with him. To-morrow she must go to the city.

"I have an errand down, too," he says, "and can introduce you at a banking house. They could tell you better about investments than I."

She is delighted with the result of the evening, and fancies that he is beginning to find the child something of a bore. It was a pretty plaything at first, but it can be naughty and troublesome. Ah, Madame Lepelletier, fascinating as you are, if you could see how his thoughts have been wandering, and witness the passion with which he kisses his sleeping child and caresses the bandaged arm, you would not be quite so certain of your triumph.

He does not write to Eugene, it is so late, and he has a curious disinclination. By this time he has surely decided. A letter may come to-morrow, and it may be better to wait until he hears.

When he wakes in the morning, Cecil is entertaining Jane with a history of her adventures wherein all things are mingled.

"A doll!" exclaims Jane. "Why, is she a little girl?"

"She isn't very big," says Cecil; "not like Aunt Gertrude or madame; and the most beautiful dishes that came from Paris! That's where madame was. And she laughs so and makes such dimples in her face, such sweet dimples,—just a little place where I could put my finger, and she let me. It was so soft and pink," with a lingering cadence. "I like her next best to papa."

"And you've only seen her once!" says Jane, reproachfully.

"But—she kept me from falling on the rocks, you know. I might have been hurt ever so much more; why maybe I might have been killed!"

"You were a naughty little girl to run away," interpolates Jane, with some severity.

"I shall never run away again, Jane," Cecil promises, with solemnity. "But I didn't mean to slip. Something spilled out below and the tree went down, and Miss Violet was there. Maybe I should not have found her if I hadn't fallen."

"Is she pretty?" inquires Jane.

"Oh, she is beautiful! ever so much handsomer than madame."

"I don't think any one can be handsomer than madame," says Jane.

"Now I can go to papa." And Cecil opens his door softly. "O papa, my hair is all curled," she cries, eagerly, "and——"

Has he a rival already in the child's heart? the child so hard to win! A curious pang pierces him for a moment. If Miss St. Vincent can gain hearts so easily, Eugene had better see her, he decides.

The affair is talked of somewhat at the breakfast-table. Floyd Grandon takes it quietly. Mrs. Grandon reads Cecil a rather sharp lecture, and the child relapses into silence. Madame Lepelletier considers it injudicious to make a heroine of Cecil, and seconds her father's efforts to pass lightly over it. A girl who plays with a doll need fill no one with anxiety.

So Mr. Grandon drives his little daughter over to the eyrie just in time to catch Lindmeyer, who is still positive and deeply interested.

"I shall get back as soon as I can next week," he says, "and then I want to go in the factory at once. I shall be tremendously mistaken if I do not make it work."

There is a curious touch of shyness about Violet this morning that is enchanting. She carries off Cecil at once. There sits the lovely doll in a rocking-chair, and a trunk of elegant clothes that would win any little girl's heart. Cecil utters an exclamation of joy.

Mr. St. Vincent is very feeble, yet the fire of enthusiasm burns in his eyes.

"You have the right man," he says, in a tremulous voice that certainly has lost strength since yesterday; "if he was not compelled to go away; but he has promised to hurry back."

Grandon chats as long as his time will allow, then he goes to say good by to Cecil.

"You think you will not tire of her?" and he questions the bright, soft eyes, the blooming, eager face.

"Oh, no, indeed!"

"Then I will come this evening. Oh," with intense feeling, "you must know, you do know, how grateful I am!"

Her eyes are full of tears, then she smiles. What a bewitching, radiant face! He is quite sure it would capture Eugene, and he resolves to write at once.

"God must have sent you there," he says; then, obeying a strong impulse, he kisses the white, warm brow, while she bends her head reverently.

It is a busy and not an unpleasant day to Floyd Grandon. Minton & Co., the bankers, greet him quite like an old friend, though they find him much changed, and are most courteous to Madame Lepelletier; extremely pleased with so rich and elegant a client, believing they see in her the future Mrs. Grandon. There is a dinner at a hotel, a little shopping, and the delightful day is gone. She has had him all to herself, though now and then he has lapsed into abstraction, but there is enough with all the perplexing business to render him a trifle grave.

She is due at Newport next week. She is almost sorry that it is so soon, but if he should miss her,—and then he has promised a few days as soon as he can get away. If that tiresome St. Vincent would only die and be done with it! If he was not mixed up with all these family affairs,—but they will be settled by midwinter. He is not thinking of marriage for himself, that she can plainly see, and it makes her cause all the more secure. She feels, sitting beside him in the palace car, quite as if she had the sole claim, and she really loves him, needs him. It is different from any feeling of mere admiration, though he is a man of whom any woman might be justly proud. She has learned a little of his own aims to-day: he is to make a literary venture presently that will give him an undeniable position.

But the child is the Mordecai at the gate. He must go for her, so he merely picks up the mail that has come and steps back into the carriage. If she could have dared a little more and gone with him, but Floyd Grandon is the kind of man with whom liberties are not easily taken. And perhaps she has won enough for one day. Sometimes in attempting too much one loses all.

[ ]

CHAPTER VIII.

For I have given you here a thread of mine own life.—Shakespeare.

Floyd Grandon leans back in the carriage and opens Eugene's letter.

"What idiotic stuff have you in your head? Do you think me a baby in leading-strings, or a fool? You may work at that invention until the day of doom, and have fifty experts, and I'll back Wilmarth against you all. He has been trying it for the last six months, and he's shrewd, long-headed, something of a genius himself, and he says it never can succeed, that is, to make money. I am not in the market for matrimonial speculations, thank you, they are rather too Frenchy and quite too great a risk where the fortune is not sure. To think of tying one's self to a little fool brought up in a convent! No, no, no! There, you have my answer. The whole thing may go to the everlasting smash first!"

Grandon folds it very deliberately and puts it in his pocket. The other notes are not important; he merely glances them over. Will Eugene relent when he receives the second appeal? He is not quite sure. But he has done a brother's full duty, and he is honestly sorry that he has failed.

Coming round the walk he sees Cecil in the hammock, and Violet is telling her a fairy story. The doll lies on her arm, and her eyes are half closed. It is such a lovely picture of content, home happiness, that he hates to break in upon it.

"Oh, here is your papa!" cries Violet, who seems to have felt the approach rather than seen it.

"O papa!" There is a long, delightsome kiss, then Cecil sits up straight, her face full of momentous import. "Papa," she says, "why can't we come here to live? I like it so much better than at grandmamma's house. Miss Violet tells prettier stories than Jane, and Denise is so good to me. She made me a little pie."

Violet gives an embarrassed laugh. "I really have not been putting treason into her head," she says, and then she retreats ignominiously to the kitchen.

Denise comes forward with an anxious face.

"The master wishes to see you. Mr. Wilmarth has been here," she adds.

Grandon goes up to the sick-room. Mr. St. Vincent is in a high state of excitement. Mr. Wilmarth has renewed his offer of marriage; nay, strongly insisted upon it, and hinted at some mysterious power that could work much harm if he chose to go out of the business.

"If your friend could have stayed until we were quite certain," St. Vincent says, weakly. "I am so torn and distracted! My poor, poor child! Have you heard from your brother?"

"I shall hear on Monday," Grandon replies, evasively.

"And if I cannot live until then?" The eyes are wild, eager; the complexion is of a gray pallor.

"Whatever happens, I will care for Violet," the visitor says, solemnly. "Trust her to me. She saved my little child yesterday, and I owe her a large debt of gratitude. I will be a father to her."

"Mr. Grandon, you are still too young, and—how did she save your child?" he asks, suddenly.

Grandon repeats the rescue, and if he makes Violet more of a heroine than madame would approve, it is a pardonable sin.

"My brave little girl! My brave little girl!" he exclaims, with tremulous delight. Then the eyes of the two men meet in a long glance. A wordless question is asked, a subtile understanding is vouchsafed. Floyd Grandon is amazed, and a curious thrill speeds through every pulse. He is too young for any fatherly relation, and yet—

"It is but fair to wait until Monday," he replies, with a strange hesitation. "And you must calm yourself."

"But nothing is done," St. Vincent cries, with gasping eagerness. "I have lain here dreaming, hoping. I never shall be any better! It is coming with a swift pace, and my darling will be left alone; my sweet, innocent Violet, who knows nothing of the world, who has not an aunt or cousin, no one but poor old Denise."

"Trust to me, command me as you would a son," says the firm, reassuring voice. "And, oh, I beseech you, calm yourself! It will all be well with her."

A change passes over the face. The hands are stretched out, there is a gasp; is he really dying? Denise is summoned.

"Oh, my poor master! Mr. Grandon, that man must not see him again! He will kill him! It was so when he came to Canada. He wants all that my poor master has, and the child, but it is like putting her in the clutch of a tiger!"

"Do not think of it, Denise; it will never be," and a shudder of disgust runs over him.

They bring Mr. St. Vincent back to consciousness, but he lies motionless, with his eyes half closed.

"Was there much talking?" Floyd asks.

"He seemed to get very angry." Then she comes nearer and says in a whisper, "He is no true friend to you, if he is fair to your face. He said that in six months you would ruin everything, and there would not be a penny left for Miss Violet. He spoke ill of your brother. I am not one to carry tales or make trouble, but——" And she wipes her furrowed face.

"I understand."

They sit and watch him, Grandon holding the feeble wrist. It will not be safe to leave him alone to-night, to leave them. There is a duty here he cannot evade.

"I will take my little girl home," he says, presently, "and then I will come back and remain all night. Was the doctor here to-day?"

"Yes. He seemed better then. He was better until—You are a very good friend," she goes on, abruptly. "It is a trusty face—an honest voice——"

"You can trust me," he says, much moved. He goes softly down the stairs, and with a few words to Cecil persuades her to leave this enchanted realm. Violet kisses her fondly and clings to her; they have had such a happy day, there has not been a lonely moment in it. The wistful face haunts Grandon through the homeward ride, and he hardly hears Cecil's prattle.

He makes a brief explanation to his mother and leaves excuses for madame, who is lying down in order to be fresh and enchanting for evening. His orders for Jane are rather more lengthy, and she is to comfort Cecil if he should not be home for breakfast.

He has a simple supper in the little nest among the cliffs. Violet pours the tea with a serene unconsciousness. She is nothing but a child. Her life and education have been so by rule, emotions repressed, bits of character trimmed and trained, though they have not taken all out, he is sure. She is very proper and precise now, a little afraid she shall blunder somewhere, and with a rare delicacy will not mention the child, lest its father should think she has coaxed it from some duty or love. He almost smiles to himself as he speculates upon her. Once there was just such another,—no, the other was unlike her in all but youth and beauty, with a hundred coquettish ways where this one is honest, simple, and sincere. Could she have served a table gravely like this, and made no vain use of lovely eyes or dimpled mouth?

He goes up-stairs and takes his place as a watcher. There is nothing to do but administer a few drops of medicine every half-hour. The evening is warm and he sits by the open window, trying not to think, telling himself that in honor he has no right to for the next forty hours, and then the decision must come. He could fight her battle so much better if—if he had the one right, but does he want it? He has counted on many other things in his life. For his dead father's sake he is willing to make some sacrifice, but why should this come to him?

The stars shine out in the wide blue heavens, the wind whispers softly among the leaves, the water ripples in the distance. The mysterious noises of night grow shriller for a while, then fainter, until at midnight there is scarcely a sound. How strangely solemn to sit here by this lapsing soul, that but a little while ago was the veriest stranger to him! He has sent Denise to bed, Violet is sleeping with childhood's ease and unconsciousness. A week hence and everything will be changed for her; she will never be a child again.

There is a pale bit of moon towards morning, then faint streaks raying up in the east, and sounds of life once more. A sacred Sunday morning. He feels unusually reverent and grave, and breathes a prayer. He wants guidance so much, and yet—does one pray about secular affairs? he wonders.

Denise taps lightly at the door. She looks refreshed, but the awe will not soon go out of her old face. Mr. St. Vincent has rested quietly, his pulse is no weaker; how could it be to live? He stirs and opens his eyes. They feed him some broth and a little wine, and he drops off drowsily again.

"You are so good," says the grateful old creature, who studies him with wistful eyes. Has she any unspoken hope?

While she waits he goes down to stretch his cramped limbs. The doctor can do no good and will not come to-day. There is no one else to call upon. He must stay; it would be brutal to leave them alone.

Denise has a lovely little breakfast spread for him, but Violet is not present. Denise, too, has her Old World ideas. He goes up again to the invalid, and after an hour or two walks down home. His mother and madame are at church, as he supposed they would be. He talks a little to Gertrude, who is nervous and shocked at the thought of any one dying, and wonders if it can make any difference to the business. He takes a walk with Cecil, who coaxes to go back with him to her dear Miss Violet, but he convinces her that it cannot be to-day; to-morrow, perhaps.

He walks back, rambling down to the spot where Cecil came so near destruction. The land-slide is clearly visible, the young tree, torn up by the roots, is a ghost, with brown, withered leaves, and there are the jagged rocks going steeply down to the shore. If no hand had been there to save! If no steady foot had dared climb from point to point! He wonders now how she did it! It seems a greater miracle than before. And how strange that Cecil should evince such an unwonted partiality for Miss St. Vincent! Does it all point one way to a certain ending?

It is well that Floyd Grandon has taken this path. He goes up through the garden and hears a voice at the hall door.

"You cannot see him," Denise is saying. "He is scarcely conscious, and cannot be disturbed. Your call of yesterday made him much worse."

"But I must see him, my good woman!" in an imperative tone. "If he is going to die, it is so much the more necessary."

"It is Sunday," she replies. "You can talk no business, you can do him no good."

"Who is here with him?"

"No one," she answers, "but his daughter and myself. Go away and leave us to our quiet. If you must see him, come to-morrow."

He takes out a pencil and writes a rather lengthy message. "Give this to him, and to no one else," he says, sharply, turning away with evident reluctance.

"Oh!" Denise cries as she espies Mr. Grandon, "if I had known you were here; I was afraid he would force his way in."

"I am glad you did not: I shall see that there is some one here all the time now."

"He is much better. He has asked for you, and eaten a little."

A white figure like a ghost stands beside them. Every bit of color has gone out of the blossom-tinted face, and the eyes look large and desperate in their frightened depths.

"What is it?" she says. "Mr. Grandon, Denise, what is it the man said about papa? Is he—dying? Oh, it cannot be! Is this why you do not want me to see him?"

They start like a couple of conspirators, speechless.

"Oh!" with a wild, piercing cry. "Will he die? And I have just come home to stay, to comfort him, to make him happy. Oh, what shall I do? To be left all alone! Let me go to him."

Denise catches her in the fond old arms, where she sobs as if her heart would break. Grandon turns away, then says brokenly, "I will go up to him. Some one must tell him. She ought to be with him."

St. Vincent is awake and quite revived. Grandon touches carefully on this little scene, and proposes that Violet shall be allowed in the sick-room, since the sad secret has been betrayed.

"Oh, how can I leave her?" he groans, in anguish, "alone, unprotected, to fight her way through strife and turmoil, to learn the world's coldness and cruelty! or perhaps be made a prey through her very innocence that has been so sedulously guarded. Heaven help us both!"

"It will all be right, believe me," says the strong, firm voice. "And the shock would be terrible to her if there were no sweet last words to remember afterward. Comfort her a little with your dying love."

He signs with his hand. Grandon goes down-stairs again.

"Violet, my child," he says, with a tenderness no one but Cecil has ever heard in his voice, "listen to me. You must control your grief a little or it will be so much harder for your father. You know the sad secret now. Can you comfort him these few days, and trust to God for your solace afterward? Nothing can so soothe these hours as a daughter's love,—if you can trust yourself not to add to his pangs."

The sobs shake her slender figure as she lies on Denise's sorrowing heart. Oh, what can he say to lighten her grief? His inmost soul aches for her.

"Violet!" He takes her hand in his.

"I will try," she responds, brokenly. "But he is all I have; all," drearily.

"Do you want to see him?"

She makes an effort to repress her sobs. "Denise," she says, "walk in the garden awhile with me. It was so sudden. I shall always shudder at the sound of that man's voice, as if he had indeed announced papa's death warrant."

If Floyd Grandon had not resolved before, he resolves now. He goes back, taking with him the scrap of paper. After reading it, St. Vincent hands it to him. The gist of it all is that to-morrow at ten Wilmarth will come with a lawyer to sign the contracts he spoke of yesterday, and hopes to find Miss Violet prepared.

"There was no agreement," says St. Vincent, feebly. "I cannot give him my darling unless she consents. It is not that we love our children less, Mr. Grandon, that we endeavor to establish their future, but because we know how hard the world is. And of the two, I will trust you."

His breath is all gone. Floyd fans him and gives him the drops again.

Half an hour afterward Violet comes into the room, so wan and changed that yesterday seems a month ago. It is a scene of heart-breaking pathos at first, but she nerves herself and summons all her fortitude. It must be so, if she is to stay there.

St. Vincent dozes off again when the passion is a little spent. He grows frailer, the skin is waxen white, and the eyes more deeply sunken. All that is to be of any avail must be done quickly, if St. Vincent is to die in peace as regards his child.

What if he and Cecil were at just this pass! What if he lay dying and her future not assured? These people are not kith and kin of his that he need feel so anxious, neither are they friends of long standing. Then he sees the lithe figure again, stepping from crag to crag, holding out its girlish arms, with a brave, undoubting faith, and clasping Cecil. Yes, it is through her endeavor that his child is not marred and crushed, even if the great question of life is put aside. Does he not owe her something?

She raises her head presently. Denise is sitting over by the window, Grandon nearer. "Is it true?" she asks, tearless now and sadly bewildered, all the pathos of desolation in her young voice,—"is it true? He has always been so pale and thin, and how could I dream—oh, he will get well again! He was so ill in Canada, you know, Denise?"

And yet she realizes now that he has never recovered since that time. How can they answer her? Grandon is moved with infinite pity, yet words are utterly futile. Nothing can comfort her with this awful reality staring her in the face.

She buries her woe-stricken face in the pillow again. There is a long, long silence. Then Denise bethinks herself of some homely household duties. It is not right to leave her young mistress alone with this gentleman, and yet,—but etiquette is so different here. Ah, if the other one was like this, if she could go to such a husband; and Denise's old heart swells at the thought of what cannot be, but is tempting, nevertheless.

Towards evening Grandon feels that he must return for a brief while. St. Vincent has rallied wonderfully again, and the pulse has gained strength that is deceptive to all but Grandon.

"I will come back for the night," he says. "You must not be alone any more. There ought to be some good woman to call upon."

Denise knows of none save the washerwoman, who will be here Tuesday morning, but she is not certain such a body would be either comfort or help. "And he could not bear strange faces about him; he is peculiar, I think you call it. But it is hardly right to take all your time."

"Do not think of that for a moment," he returns, with hearty sympathy.

At home he finds Cecil asleep. "She was so lonely," explains Jane. "I read to her and took her walking, but I never let her go out of my sight an instant now," the girl says with a tremble in her voice. "She talked of Miss Violet constantly, and her beautiful doll, and the tea they had together, but she wouldn't go to madame nor to her Aunt Gertrude."

Floyd kisses the sweet rosy mouth, and his first desire is to awaken her, but he sits on the side of the bed and thinks if Violet were here what happy days the child would have. She is still so near to her own childhood; the secret is that so far she has never been considered anything but a child. Her womanly life is all to come at its proper time. There is everything for her to learn. The selfishness, the deceit, the wretched hollowness and satiety of life,—will it ever be hers, or is there a spring of perennial freshness in her soul? She might as well come here as his ward. In time Eugene might fancy her. There would be his mother and the two girls. Why does he shrink a little and understand at once that they are not the kind of women to train Violet? Better a hundred times honest, old-fashioned, formal Denise.

An accident has made dinner an hour late, so he is in abundant time. Mrs. Grandon has been dull all day. Laura and Marcia had this excellent effect, they kept the mental atmosphere of the house astir, and now it is stagnant. She complains of headache.

"Suppose we go to drive," he proposes, and the two ladies agree. Madame is in something white and soft, a mass of lace and a marvel of fineness. She has the rare art of harmonious adjustment, of being used to her clothes. She is never afraid to crumple them, to trail them over floors, to use them, and yet she is always dainty, delicate, never rough or prodigal. She is superlatively lovely to-night. As she sits in the carriage, with just the right poise of languor, just the faint tints of enthusiasm that seem a part of twilight, she is a very dangerous siren, in that, without the definite purpose being at all tangible, she impresses herself upon him with that delicious sense of being something that his whole life would be the poorer without. A subtile knowledge steals over him that he cannot analyze or define, but in his soul he knows this magnificent woman could love him now with a passion that would almost sweep the very soul out of him. He has no grudge against her that she did not love him before,—it was not her time any more than his; neither is he affronted at the French marriage,—it was what she desired then. But now she has come to something else. Of what use would life be if one had always to keep to sweet cake and marmalade? There are fruits and flavors and wines, there is knowledge sweet and bitter.

Very little is said. He glances at her now and then, and she reads in his face that the tide is coming in. She has seen this questioning softness in other eyes. If she could have him an hour or two on the porch after their return!

That is the bitter of it. He feels that he has stayed away from sorrow too long. His mother makes some fretful comment, she gives him a glance that he carries with him in the darkness.

A quiet night follows. The doctor is up in the morning. "Comfortable," he says. "You may as well go on with the anodynes. There will be great restlessness at the last, no doubt, unless some mood of excitement should carry him off. Three days will be the utmost."

Briggs comes with Mr. Grandon's mail. There is a postal from Eugene, who considers the subject unworthy of the compliment of a sealed letter.

"No, a thousand times no! Bore me no more with the folly!"

Floyd's face burns as he thrusts it in Denise's stove to consume.

"Have you heard?" St. Vincent asks, as he enters the room.

"Yes." The tone acknowledges the rest.

"It is all vain, useless, then! Young people are not trained to pay heed to the advice of their elders. My poor, poor Violet!"

The utter despair touches Grandon. He has ceased to fight even for his child.

What impulse governs Grandon he cannot tell then or ever. It may be pity, sympathy, the knowledge that he can fight Violet's battle, insure her prosperity in any case, protect her, and give her happiness, and smooth the way for the dying. Of himself he does not think at all, strangely enough, and he forgets madame as entirely as if she never existed.

"Will you give her to me as my wife?" he asks, in a slow, distinct tone. "I am older, graver, and have a child."

The light that overflows the dying eyes is his reward. It is something greater than joy; it is trust, relief, satisfaction, gratitude intense and heartfelt. Then it slowly changes.

"It is taking an advantage of your generosity," he answers, with a voice in which the anguish cannot be hidden. "No, I will not be so selfish when you have been all that is manly, a friend since the first moment——"

A light tap is heard and the door opens. Violet comes in, dressed in clinging white, her eyes heavy, her sweet face filled with awe.

Grandon takes her cold hand in his and leads her to the bed. "Violet," he begins, with unsmiling tenderness, "will you take me for your husband, your friend, your protector?"

Violet has been instructed in some of the duties of womanhood. Marriage is a holy sacrament to be entered into with her father's consent and approval. She looks at him gravely, questioningly.

"I am much older than you, I have many cares and duties to occupy and perplex me, and I have a little girl——"

Violet's face blooms with a sudden radiance as she lifts her innocent eyes, lovely with hope.

"I like her so much," she says. "I am not very wise, but I could train her and take care of her if you would trust me."

He smiles then. "I trust you in that and in all things," he makes answer. It is as if he were adopting her.

She carries his hand gravely to her lips without considering the propriety. She feels so peaceful, so entirely at rest.

"Heaven will bless you," St. Vincent cries. "It must, it must! Violet, all your life long you must honor and obey this man. There are few like him."

Grandon kisses the flushed forehead. It is a very simple betrothal. He has given away his manhood's freedom without a thought of what it may be worth to him, she has signed away her girlhood's soul. Secretly, she feels proud of such a master; that is what her training bids her accept in him. She is to learn the lessons of honor and obedience. No one has ever told her about love, except that it is the natural outcome of the other duties.

"I think," Mr. Grandon says, "you must see a lawyer now, and have all your business properly attended to. There will be nothing to discuss when Mr. Wilmarth comes."

St. Vincent bows feebly. He, Grandon, must go and put these matters in train.

[ ]

CHAPTER IX.

But he who says light does not necessarily say joy.—Hugo.

Floyd Grandon strides down the street in a great tumult of thought and uncertainty, but positive upon one subject. Every possible chance of fortune shall be so tied up to Violet that no enemy can accuse him of taking an advantage. Surely he does not need the poor child's money. If it is not a success,—and this is the point that decides him,—if the hope is swept away, she will have a home and a protector.

His first matrimonial experiment has not left so sweet a flavor in his soul that he must hasten to a second draught. He looks at it philosophically. Violet is a well-trained child, neither exacting nor coquettish. She will have Cecil for an interest, and he must keep his time for his own pursuits. He is wiser than in the old days. Violet is sweet and fresh, and the child loves her.

Mr. Connery listens to the story in a surprise that he hardly conceals. Grandon feels a little touched. "There really was nothing else to do," he cries, "and I like Miss St. Vincent. I'm not the kind of man to be wildly in love, but I can respect and admire, for all that. Now choose the man you have the greatest confidence in, and he must be a trustee,—with you. She is so young, and I think it would be a good thing for you two men to take charge of her fortune, if it comes to that, until she is at least twenty-five; then she will know what to do with it."

Connery ruminates. "Ralph Sherburne is just the man," he exclaims. "He is honest and firm to a thread, and keen enough to see through a grindstone if you turn fast or slow. Come along."

They are soon closeted in the invalid's room. Floyd insists that they shall discuss the first points without him. Violet is walking up and down a shady garden path, and he joins her. He would like to take her in his arms and kiss and comfort her as he does Cecil, she looks so very like a child, but he has a consciousness that it would not be proper. He links her arm in his and joins in a promenade, yet they are both silent, constrained. Yesterday he was her friend, the father of the little girl she loves; to-day he is some one else that she must respect and honor.

Wilmarth comes and receives his message with deep vexation. Mr. St. Vincent will admit him at three. He is no worse, but there is nothing to hope. Ah, if he were to see the two pacing the walk, he would gnash his teeth. He fancies he has sown distrust, at least.

By noon the contracts, the will, and all legal papers are drawn and signed. Everything is inviolably Miss St. Vincent's. Mr. Connery proposes an excellent and trusty nurse, and will send her immediately, for Denise and Violet must not be left alone. Grandon turns his steps homeward.

"Really I did not know whether you were coming back," says his mother, sharply. "I think, considering Madame Lepelletier leaves us to-morrow morning, you might have a few hours to devote to your own household. It seems to me Mr. St. Vincent lasts a long while for a man at the point of death."

"Mother!" Floyd Grandon is really shocked. His mother is nervous and ill at ease. All night she has been brooding over what she saw in the carriage. Floyd will follow madame to Newport in a week or two, and the matter will be settled. She has no objection to her as a daughter-in-law if Floyd must marry, but it is bitterly hard to be dethroned, to have nothing, to live on sufferance.

He turns away, remembering what he ought to tell her, and yet, how can he? After to-morrow, when Madame Lepelletier has really gone,—and yet has he any true right to freedom as long as that? He ought to marry Violet this very day. Since he has resolved, why not make the resolution an absolute pleasure to the dying man?

Grandon feels the position keenly. Never by word or look has he led madame to expect any warmer feeling than friendship; indeed, until last night he had not supposed any other state possible. He could not imagine himself a part of her fashionable life, and he had not the vanity to suppose she cared for him, but now he cannot shut his eyes. There is something in her tone, in her mien, as she comes to greet him, that brings the tint of embarrassment to his cheek. He ought to tell her that he belongs to another, but he cannot drag his sad-eyed Violet out for her inspection.

"Mr. St. Vincent?" she questions, delicately.

"He can hardly live through another night. There was a great deal of business to do this morning, and it has exhausted him completely. It is so unfortunate,—his having so few friends here."

"What is to become of his poor child?"

"He has been making arrangements for her. I wish he could have lived a month longer, then we would have been quite sure of the success or failure of his patent."

Floyd says this in a grave, measured tone.

"There is always a convent," says madame, with a sweet, serious smile. "I believe in this country, or at least among Protestants, there is no such refuge for young or old in times of trouble."

He does not wish to pursue the subject.

"I am so sorry Eugene is not at home. You go to-morrow?"

There is not the slightest inhospitable inflection to this, but if he had said, "Why do you go?" or "You had better wait," her heart would have throbbed with pleasure. One could announce a delay so easily by telegram.

"I meant to see you started on your journey," he begins, and there is a curious something in his tone. "Briggs had better go and see to your luggage, and if you will accept my mother's company——"

"You cannot go?" There is a soft pleading, a regret that touches him, and makes him feel that he is playing false, and yet he surely is not. There is no reason why he should tell her of the coming step when he has hardly decided himself.

"No," he answers, briefly. "I ought not leave St. Vincent an hour. My impression is that he will die at midnight or dawn. I have no one to whom I can depute any of the arrangements."

It does not enter her mind that a little girl who plays with dolls or dishes can have anything in common with him. Possibly he may be made her guardian. She wants to stay, and yet there is no real excuse.

He arranges everything for her journey, but will not bid her good by. A note can do that more easily, he thinks. Cecil cries and begs to go with him. Why not take her and Jane? He can send them home again if need be. Cecil is wild with delight, and madame really envies her.

Violet receives her guest with tears and tender kisses. She has been sitting with her father, and now he is asleep. Denise has insisted upon her taking a little walk, and she is so glad to have Cecil, though the child is awed by the sad face.

St. Vincent's breath is short and comes with difficulty. Whatever Grandon does must be done quickly. When the dying man stirs he asks him a question.

"If you would——" with a long, feeble sigh, but the eyes fill and overflow with a peaceful light.

"Violet," Grandon says, an hour later, "your father wishes for the marriage now. My child, are you—quite willing?"

She gives him her hand. For a moment he rebels at the sacrifice. She knows nothing of her own soul, of love. Then he recalls the miserable ending of more than one love marriage. Was Laura's love to be preferred to this ignorance?

"Come," he says; "Cecil, too."

"She must be dressed!" cries Denise. "Oh, my lamb, I hope it may not be ill fortune to have no wedding dress, but you must be fresh and clean." Cecil looks on in wide-eyed wonder.

"Is she going to be married as Aunt Laura was?" she asks, gravely.

Grandon wonders how she will take it. If it should give her sweet, childish love a wrench!

They assemble in the sick-room. The two stand close beside the bed, so near that St. Vincent can take his daughter's hand and give her away. The vows are uttered solemnly, the bond pronounced, "What God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

"Cecil," her father says, "I have married Miss Violet. She is to be your mamma and live with us. I hope you will love her."

Cecil studies her father with the utmost gravity, her eyes growing larger and more lustrous. Her breath comes with a sigh. "Papa," as if revolving something in her small mind, "madame cannot be my mamma now?"

"Madame——"

"Grandmamma said when I was just a little naughty this morning that I could not do so when madame was my mamma, that I would have to obey her."

"No, she never would have been that," he returns, with a touch of anger.

"You will love me!" Violet kneels before her and clasps her arms about the child, gives her the first kisses of her bridehood; and Cecil, awed by emotions she does not understand, draws a long, sobbing breath, and cries, "I do love you! I do love you!" hiding her face on Violet's shoulder.

Floyd Grandon has given his child something else to love. A quick, sharp pang pierces him.

There is a little momentary confusion, then Violet goes to her own father and lies many moments with his feeble arms about her, until a slight spasm stirs the worn frame.

It is as the doctor has predicted. A terrible restlessness ensues, a pressure for breath, the precursors of the fatal struggle. He begs that Violet will go out in the air again, she is so pale, but he does not want her to witness this agony. They have had some brief, fond talks, and she is safe. All the rest he will meet bravely.

The hours pass on and night comes. Violet kisses him and then takes Cecil to her own little room, where they fall asleep in each other's arms. The child is so sweet. She can never be quite forlorn with her. So much of her life has been passed apart from her father that it seems now as if he was going on a journey and would come back presently.

But in the morning he goes on the last journey, holding Floyd Grandon's warm hand in his nerveless grasp. "My son," he sighs, and gives his fond, fond love to Violet.

They let her go in the room with Denise; she pleads to have it so. Floyd paces the hall with Cecil in his arms. He cannot explain the mystery to her and does not attempt it, but she is quite content in the promise that Miss Violet is to come and live with them.

Jane goes over with a note, and instructions to mention nothing beside the fact of the death, Mrs. Grandon and madame get off to New York, and Floyd fortifies himself for the evening's explanation.

Violet is not noisy in her grief. She would like to sit all day and hold the dead hand in hers, watch the countenance that looks no paler now, and much more tranquil than it has for days. She is utterly incredulous in the face of this great mystery. He is asleep. He will come back.

"Violet," Grandon says, at length. Is he going to love and cherish her as some irksome duty? He has never proffered love. In that old time all was demanded and given. Violet will demand nothing and be content. He draws her to him, the round, quivering chin rests in the palm of his hand, the eyes are tearful, entreating. He kisses the red, tremulous lips, not with a man's passionate fervor, but he feels them quiver beneath his, and he sees a pale pink tint creep up to the brow. She is very sweet, and she is his, not his ward, but his wife.

"I hope we shall be happy," he says. "I shall try to do everything——"

"You have been so good, so kind. Denise worships you," she says, simply.

He wonders if she will ever worship him? He thought he should not care about it, but some feeling stirs within him now that makes cold possession seem a mockery.

If they two could go away somewhere with Cecil, and live a quiet, comfortable life, with no thought of what any one will say. But explanations rise mountain high. It looks now as though he must give an account to everybody of what he has done.

A brief note announces it to Wilmarth. There was no friendship before, but he knows there will be bitter enmity now. As business is dull, he suggests that the factory be closed for the whole week. After Mr. Vincent's burial, he, Grandon would like to have a business interview at the office of Mr. Ralph Sherburne, who has all the important papers.

That is done. Cecil is quite willing to stay with Violet, and is really enchanted with Denise, so he goes home, where dinner is served in its usual lavish manner. His mother is tired, Gertrude ennuied, of course. The atmosphere is trying in the extreme.

"I have something to tell you," he says, cutting the Gordian knot at a clean stroke. "I could not make the proper explanation this morning, but now, you must pardon what has been done in haste." And he tells the story briefly, leaving out whatever he deems advisable.

"Married!" Mrs. Grandon almost shrieks.

Gertrude looks at him in amaze. In her secret heart she is glad that madame is not to reign here in all her state and beauty, shining every one down, but she wonders how he has escaped the fascination.

"Married!" his mother says again. "I did think, Floyd, you had more sense! A child like that,—a silly little thing who plays with dolls! If you wanted a wife," with withering contempt, "there was one of whom we should all have been proud! And you have behaved shamefully, after leading her to think——"

"I never gave Madame Lepelletier the slightest reason to think that I cared for her beyond mere friendliness," he says, his face flushing scarlet. "I doubt if she would wish to share the kind of life I shall elect when I get through with this business. She is an elegant society woman, and I shall always admire her, as I have done. I doubt if she would care for me," he adds, but his conscience gives a little twinge.

"When is this new mistress to come home?" asks his mother, in a bitter tone.

"I shall bring her in a few days, and I hope she will be made welcome. This——"

"I am aware this house is yours," she interrupts.

Floyd is shocked. "I was not going to say that: it was the furthest from my thoughts," he answers, indignantly. "Do not let us quarrel or have any words. You are all welcome to a home."

"It is so pleasant to be reminded of one's dependence." And Mrs. Grandon begins to weep.

"Mother," Floyd says, deliberately, "I am going to bend every energy to make the business the success that my father hoped it would be, and to provide an independence for you all, as he would have done had his life been spared. In this I shall have very little help from Eugene, and trouble with Wilmarth, but I shall do my whole duty."

"I wish your father had never taken up with that St. Vincent; there has been nothing but annoyance, there never will be."

"If there is trouble with my wife I hope I shall have the courage and manliness to endure it," he returns, resolutely. "But I trust no one will try to bring it about," he says, in a tone that implies it would not be a safe undertaking.

Mrs. Grandon rises and sails out of the room. Floyd goes on with his dessert, though he does not want a mouthful.

"Floyd," Gertrude says, timidly, "you must not mind mother. She will come around right after a while. I don't believe she would have been happy if you had married madame, and I am glad, yes, positively glad. Cecil cannot endure her. I will try to like your wife. Is she such a mere child?"

Floyd is really grateful. "She is seventeen," he answers, "and quite pretty, but small. She has been educated at a convent, and knows very little about the world, but Cecil loves her. I hope we shall all get along well," and he sighs. Life is so much harder than he could have imagined it three months ago. He is so weary, so troubled, that he feels like throwing up everything and going abroad, but, ah, he cannot. He is chained fast in the interest of others. "Talk to mother a little," he adds, "and try to make her comfortable. You see I couldn't have done any differently. I never could have endured all the talk beforehand."

When he returns to the eyrie he finds Denise holding Cecil and telling her some marvellous story. Violet is in the room with her father. "She would go," Denise says. "It is only such a little while that she can see him."

Cecil and Jane are sent home the following day. There is a very quiet funeral, but the few mourners are sincere. Violet begs to stay with Denise in the cottage, and Floyd cannot refuse. Lindmeyer returns to town and is shocked by the tidings. Grandon appoints a meeting with him the next morning at Sherburne's office. Briggs and the nurse are at the cottage, so Floyd goes home to arrange matters for the advent of Violet.