It all comes about quite differently. Violet is at the cottage, and has gone up to take a look at papa's room and put some flowers on the table. All is so lovely and peaceful. There is no place in the world like it, for it is not the chamber of death, but rather that of resurrection. "Violet," calls her husband. She turns to run down the stairs. It is a trifle dark, and how it happens she cannot tell, but she lands on the floor almost at her husband's feet, and one sharp little cry is all. He picks her up and carries her to the kitchen, laying her on Denise's cane-seat settee, where she shudders and opens her eyes, then faints again. "I wonder if any bones are broken!" And while Denise is bathing her forehead, he tries her arms, which are safe. Then as he takes one small foot in his hand she utters a piercing exclamation of pain. Prof. Freilgrath is away; there is nothing but for Floyd to go for a physician. He looks lingeringly, tenderly at the sweet child face, and kisses the cold lips. Yes, she _is_ very dear to him. He brings back the doctor speedily. One ankle is badly sprained, and there seems a wrench of some kind in her back. She must be undressed and put to bed, and her ankle bandaged. He makes her draw a dozen long respirations. "I do not believe it can be anything serious," he says, kindly, "but we will keep good watch. I will be in again early in the morning. There is no present cause for anxiety," studying Grandon's perturbed face. "I hope there is none at all," the husband responds, gravely. "And--would it be possible to move her in a day or two?" "She had better lie there on her back for the next week. You see, it is a great shock to both nerves and muscles: we are not quite birds of the air," and he laughs cheerily. "We will see how it goes with her to-morrow." Floyd returns to the chamber. Violet has a bright spot on either cheek, and her eyes have a frightened, restless expression. "It was so careless of me," she begins, in her soft tone that ought to disarm and conquer any prejudice. "I should have looked, but I have grown so used to running up and down." "Accidents happen to the best of people." Then he has to laugh at the platitude, and she laughs, too. "I mean--" he begins--"well, you are not to worry or blame yourself, or to take the slightest trouble. I am sorry it should happen just now, or at any time, for that matter, and my only desire is that you shall get perfectly well and strong. It might have been worse, my little darling," and he kisses her tenderly. Then suddenly he realizes how very much worse it might have been, if she had been left maimed and helpless; and bending over, folds her in such an ardent embrace that every pulse quivers, and her first impulse is to run away from something she cannot understand, yet is vaguely delicious when the fear has ceased.