So she turned away rejoicing in her grandfather’s absence, and went away gayly to the piano, where she spent an hour playing brilliant operatic gems, trying to while away the time until she could start on her afternoon visit to Bonnycastle. “How I wish that Cecil could come to visit me here!” she sighed, and then fell to wondering how she could re-reconcile her grandfather to her marriage with Cecil. She did not wish to lose her chance of inheriting jointly with Violet the large fortune of Judge Camden, but she did not see how she could retain the old man’s favor and still achieve her heart’s desire. She brooded often over the subject, thinking how proud she would be to carry a fortune to her husband, so that Bonnycastle could be restored to its pristine splendor, and herself become the great lady of the county, as Mrs. Grant had been in the palmy days, before the war had desolated old Virginia and swept away her fortune and her husband’s health. A dark thought came to her one wakeful night, and haunted her with horrible persistence. What if the old man should die soon--die before he found out that she was betrothed to Cecil? Amber knew that the judge’s will had been made long ago, and that, after a legacy to Mrs. Shirley, all his wealth was divided between her and Violet. She bitterly begrudged her cousin her share; but she knew that no effort of hers could divert it from her. The thought of his death grew into a secret, guilty wish. What a fortunate thing it would be for her, how it would smooth out all the difficulties in her way. And he was old, too--past seventy. He had lived out the measure of his days, grown feeble, grumpy, disagreeable, his headstrong temper making him the terror of the whole household at Golden Willows. Decidedly his death would be a relief to all. Amber began to wish for it with a desperate longing. Her hopes made it seem possible, probable. In the meantime she kept secret her betrothal to Cecil, and her stolen visits at his home, waiting for Death to seize the old man who stood between her and the wealth she was eager to inherit. It almost seemed as if Fate was going to grant her wish, for at the end of a week the old man returned to Golden Willows, so ill, so harassed, so changed from his usual pompous self as to fill every one with surprise. “No, I have not been ill, but I have had a great shock,” was all he would answer to their anxious inquiries; and he took to his bed at once, saying that he must stay there till he grew better. His first inquiry, on reaching the house, was for his letters, and he turned them over with a groan of disappointment. “Has no one heard anything of Violet?” he asked, looking anxiously from Mrs. Shirley to Amber. “Not one word,” answered Amber, quickly. “Not one word!” echoed Mrs. Shirley, dejectedly. “It is very strange!” he muttered, and his old gray head drooped dejectedly on his breast. Some great trouble had surely come to him, they thought.