"Oh," cries Violet, remorsefully, "we forgot Cecil! We never brought her anything! But I have a lovely box of creams at home; only you do not like her to eat so much sweets." "Give her the creams." and he smiles at her tenderness. Cecil welcomes them joyfully. She has two lovely little iced cakes baked in patty-pans. "One is for you, mamma----" Then she suddenly checks herself. "O Denise, we ought to have baked three; we forgot papa!" she says, with childish _naivete_. "Well, mamma will divide hers with me." A curious feeling runs over him. The child and the father have forgotten each other an instant, but the child and the mother remembered. It is dark when they reach home. The spacious hall is all aglow with light and warmth. In the parlor sits the professor, and Cecil, catching a sight of his beaming face, runs to him. Gertrude comes out, and putting her arms around Violet's neck, kisses her with so unusual a fervor that Violet stares. "I have something to tell you after dinner. You shall be the first. Oh, what a cold little face, but sweet as a rose! There is the bell." They hurry off and soon make themselves presentable. The professor brings in Gertrude. He is--if the word maybe applied to such a bookish man--inexpressibly jolly. Mrs. Grandon hardly knows how to take him, and is on her guard against some plot in the air. Violet laughs and parries his gay badinage, feeling as if she were in an enchanted realm. Floyd has a spice of amazement in his countenance. "Now," the professor says, as they rise, "I shall take Mr. Grandon off for a smoke, since we do not sit over wine." "And I shall appropriate Mrs. Grandon," declares Gertrude, with unusual _verve_. When they reach the drawing-room she says, "Send Cecil to Jane, will you not?" But Cecil has no mind to be dismissed from the conclave. Violet coaxes, entreats, promises, and finally persuades her to go, very reluctantly indeed, with Jane for just half an hour, when she may come down again. Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down to the soft, silk cushioned _tete-a-tete_. Her shawl lies over the arm,--she did not wear it in to dinner. "You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care to marry me. I never supposed----" "It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how delightful!" "Why, did he tell you?" "I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, _do_ you love him?" Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What does this girl know of love?