“You should have thought of that yourself, mother, when you refused Judge Camden’s hand,” her son replied, demurely. She flushed with surprise and exclaimed: “You are guessing wildly, my dear Cecil.” “No, mother, I am not. Do you think I do not understand that old man’s persecution of me? It is only an ignoble spite against the woman who would not marry him.” “I believe you are right, dear,” she acknowledged, sadly; “I know that a marriage with him would have given us both many advantages we do not now possess. Are you angry because I rejected him?” “No, mother, no! How could that hard, pompous old man have taken my noble father’s place in your heart? Not for the world would I have had you sacrifice yourself thus. But do not let your dislike of him prejudice you against my gentle Violet.” Mrs. Grant gave him a fond, motherly smile, as she answered, kindly: “Violet is a charming girl. I have loved her from childhood, but I cannot encourage your desire to marry her against her grandfather’s consent. He is so vindictive that nothing but trouble and sorrow could come of defiance to his will.” She believed what she said, and had her son’s best interest at heart in thus advising him, but he turned away sighing, because he had received no encouragement. All the opposing fates seemed to be leagued against him and Violet. It was cruel, for they loved so truly that Heaven must have made them for each other--he so dark, and strong, and handsome, Violet so fair, and slight, and lovely. It was very foolish that an old man’s malice over his thwarted love affair should have come between such fond and loving hearts. Cecil wandered wretchedly along the river-bank, thinking of his darling, and planning all sorts of things for overthrowing the barriers that held them apart. He would have proposed an elopement, but he hesitated on account of his poverty. He would rather have waited until his prospects brightened so that he could give his fair bride something of the luxury to which she was accustomed at Golden Willows. Here at Bonnycastle, his own home, the stately rooms were all out of repair, the fine oaken furniture was old and gloomy; the carpets worn and dingy; while outside the stone towers, in which his old English ancestor had gloried, were overgrown with ivy, in which owls screeched dismally by night and nestling birds sang by day. It was little better than a picturesque ruin, although people said that it had been the finest place in the county, and would be again, if the owner could only afford to repair it and restore the ruined lawns and gardens with their rank growths to order and beauty again. That was a dream that poor Cecil had dreamed from boyhood, but it seemed farther away from realization than ever now, as he thought of Violet and the fate her grandfather menaced her with--the marriage to an unknown wealthy suitor.