“I have seen him every evening since you were sick. He sent me notes begging me to meet him down by the river. At first it was for news of you; then he changed. Twice he forgot to ask for you, and he seemed to go back to the dear old days before you came, when he loved me so dearly and entirely. Oh, Violet, you won’t mind hearing this now, for you will soon be married to another, and then I know Cecil Grant will come back to me cured of his fleeting fancy for you! But, Violet, why do you laugh so wildly? Heavens! she is raving again!” It was true. Violet was sitting upright in bed, her hair a cascade of tumbled gold about her shoulders, her cheeks crimson, her lovely eyes bright with fever. From her poor, parched lips poured incoherent babblings, mixed with sad plaints of her lover’s falsity. Amber gazed at her victim a moment with gloating eyes and stole softly away to her own room, whispering to her guilty heart. “She has taken a relapse, and the doctor said she would die if she did. Well, what do I care? It would be a lucky thing for me. I would be my grandfather’s sole heiress then, and I could win Cecil by the force of my unbending will. Grandpapa could never frighten me to death as he did Violet! I have a will as stubborn as his own, and I would cajole him into consent some way.” Mrs. Shirley was lying down to rest for a short time, and Amber knew that the raving girl would be all alone. A thought came to her that perhaps in her delirium she might dash herself out of the open window down to instant death. But she did not go back to the sick-room. She sat down to refresh herself with some white grapes the maid had brought to her room. She was consumed with curiosity over the man that Judge Camden had chosen for Violet’s husband. “He says that he is as rich as the Vanderbilts, and that he has a palace in Chicago fit for a king. Violet could live like a queen and be covered with diamonds if she chose, but she prefers Cecil Grant’s love with a crust. So do I, alas, although riches would not go amiss, even with the man one loves,” sighing heavily. But if everything went as she hoped, Amber would have all that she most desired--wealth and the love of the man for whom she was willing to risk her immortal soul. CHAPTER V. THE BRIDE OF DEATH. Meanwhile Violet had risen from her white couch, strong with the force of fever, and stolen, unnoticed, from the room and the house. Her poor brain, crazed with the news of her lover’s falsity, had conceived a dreadful plan. She would seek the spot by the river where Cecil had uttered those sweet, sweet vows of love that he had so quickly broken, and cast herself into the darkling waves, that would hide her forever from the bitterness of her sorrow. “The bride of death!” she murmured, and sped with tender, bare, white feet, across the daisied lawn.