"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 grat.i.tude. 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, rea.s.suring voice. "And, oh, I beseech you, calm yourself! It will all be well with her."

A change pa.s.ses 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 sh.o.r.e. 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."