"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?