Violet's heart had thrilled at the thought of the exquisite-toned piano. She had tried it a day or two after her advent and found it locked. "Do you know who keeps the key?" she had asked timidly of Jane. "It is Miss Laura's piano," is the concise answer, and no more is said. But one morning Mr. Grandon asks if Violet can go over to the cottage with him. Her lovely eyes are all alight. "Get your hat, then," he says, as if he were speaking to the child. Violet starts eagerly. Cecil rises and follows. "Oh, she may go, too?" the pretty mamma asks. Floyd nods over his paper. Mrs. Grandon bridles her head loftily. "Denise has something for us, I know," cries Violet. "We were not there yesterday. Poor Denise, she must have missed us, but I did want to finish Maysie's dress." Maysie is Cecil's doll, and has had numerous accessions to her wardrobe of late. Grandon has an odd little smile on his face as he looks up. Violet and he are friends again when they are not Mr. and Mrs. Grandon. The little episode of the wedding journey has faded, or at least has borne no further fruit. Yet as the days go on she feels more at home in the friendship. "Oh," she begins, in joyous accents, "you have a surprise for us!" She has such a pretty way of bringing in Cecil. "Perhaps it is Denise." "It is cream, I know," announces Cecil. Denise's variety of creams is inexhaustible. Grandon smiles again, a sort of good-humored, noncommittal smile. It is something that pleases him very much, Violet decides, and a delicious interest brightens every feature. Denise welcomes them gladly. Lindmeyer has taken up his lodgings at the cottage, but the upper rooms are kept just the same. Grandon leads the way and Violet stares at the boxes in the hall. Her room is in a lovely tumult of disorder. Bed and chairs are strewn with feminine belongings. "Oh," she says, uttering a soft, grateful cry. "They have come! But--there is so much!" And she looks at him in amazement. "It is not so bad, after all," he answers, touching the soft garments with his fingers, and studying her. There is a lovely dead silk, with only a very slight garniture of crape; there is the tenderest gray, that looks like a pathetic sigh, and two or three in black, that have the air of youth, an indescribable style that only an artist could give. But the white ones are marvels. One has deep heliotrope ribbons, and another crapy material seems almost alive. There are plain mulls, with wide hems, there are gloves and sashes and wraith-like plaitings of tulle; a pretty, dainty bonnet and a black chip hat, simple and graceful. Madame Vauban has certainly taken into account youth, bridehood, and the husband's wishes. Plain they are, perhaps their chief beauty lies in their not being overloaded with trimming and ornament.