Violet is quite bright and flushed when the dinner-bell rings, and is introduced to her husband's mother at the head of the elegantly appointed table. She is in rich black silk, with crape folds, and very handsome jet ornaments, and Violet shrinks into herself as the sharp eyes glance her over. Why should they be so unfriendly? All conversation languishes, as Cecil is trained not to talk at the table. Violet returns to the drawing-room and walks wistfully about the grand piano. Floyd opens it for her and begs her to amuse herself whenever she feels so inclined. "Is he quite certain no one will be annoyed?" "Quite." Then she seats herself. She has had no piano at the eyrie. This is delicious. She runs her fingers lightly over the keys and evokes the softest magic music, the sweetest, saddest strains. They stir Floyd's very soul as he sits with Cecil on his knee, who is large-eyed and wondering. Mrs. Grandon saunters in presently. "How close it is," she exclaims, "and I have such an excruciating headache!" "Ah," says Violet, sympathetically. "I had better not continue playing, it might distress you." "Oh, no, you need not mind." The tone is that of a martyr, and Violet stops with a last tender strain. Floyd Grandon is so angry that he dare not trust his voice to speak. Violet stands for a moment undecided, then he stretches out his hand, and she is so glad of the warm clasp in that great lonely room. "Let us go out to walk. It is not quite dark yet. Cecil, ask Jane to bring some shawls." Cecil slips down. Floyd draws his wife nearer. He would like to hold the slight little thing, but his mother is opposite, and he must not make Violet seem a baby. "I have put an end to that!" exclaims Mrs. Grandon, vindictively, going back to Gertrude. "That is Laura's piano, and it shall not be drummed on by school-girls. What Floyd could see in that silly little red-haired thing to bring her to a place like this, when he could have had a lady----" "After all, if he is satisfied," begins Gertrude, deprecatingly. "He wanted her fortune! He doesn't care a sixpence for her. It was to get the business in his hands, and now we can all tramp as soon as we please." "Mother, you _are_ unjust." "And you are a poor, spiritless fool, who can never see anything beyond the page of a novel!" is the stinging retort. She goes to her own room, and the morning's mail carries the news to Eugene and Laura. Floyd has letters to write this evening, and when Cecil's bedtime comes, Violet goes up with her. They have a pretty romp that quite scandalizes Jane, who is not at all sure how much respect she owes this new mistress. "O you sweet little darling!" Violet cries for the twentieth time. "You are the one thing I can have for mine." "I am papa's first," says Cecil, with great dignity. "He loves me best of anything in the wide world,--he has told me so, oh, a hundred times! And I love him best, and then you. Oh, what makes you cry so often, because your papa is dead?"