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.