“Come, now, Violet! make up your mind to meet Mr. Castello as I wish you to do,” he added, cajolingly, for he really believed that a sight of the handsome and fascinating Spaniard might alter the girl’s sentiments toward him. Weary of his threats and importunities, she said, despairingly: “If I grant him the wished-for interview it will only be to refuse his suit in the most positive terms.” “Very well, my dear; only let him see you, and you may change your mind,” grimly. “I am ready to go now,” continued Violet, summoning all her courage for the dreaded interview. “Well, but my girl, you’ll change your gown first, won’t you? That plain white gown isn’t nice enough. Ring for Phebe, and let her dress you in your pretty blue silk with the lace rufflings--do, Violet,” coaxed the old man, who was a connoisseur in the matter of ladies’ dress. “I shall go as I am, grandpapa, or not at all,” declared Violet, perversely, and he had to yield. “But your eyes show traces of tears, Violet. Hadn’t you better bathe them in a little cold water?” “No. I want him to see that I have been crying. Perhaps he will understand, then, how I loathe and hate him!” she burst out, bitterly. “Come, then, you cross-grained little minx!” he growled, and, taking her arm, led her down stairs to the drawing-room, where the unwelcome suitor was waiting, impatiently, for her appearance. Judge Camden almost dragged the shrinking and reluctant girl forward to the center of the room. “Here she is, Mr. Castello--my spoiled, willful little girl; and now I will leave you alone with her to plead your own cause,” he exclaimed, thus informally introducing Violet and making his escape. They were left alone in the long, magnificent drawing-room, the dark, handsome man, and the fair, beautiful girl. She stood still, with downcast eyes a moment, then lifted them shudderingly to his eager face. He sprang forward and tried to take her hand, but she hid it in the snowy folds of her gown. “Dear Violet, how glad, how rapturously happy I am to meet you again!” he exclaimed, in a low and musical voice. She was trembling so that she could not stand, and sinking into a chair, with a weary sigh, she essayed to speak: “Harold Castello, words of love are wasted between you and me! You do not love me. Why profess to do so? It is ghastly fear for your own safety, not true love, that impels you to bind my life to yours.” CHAPTER XIX. “I LOVE YOU AS MADLY AS YOU HATE ME!” As Harold Castello looked at Violet and listened to her words, his dusky complexion grew lividly pale, and his eyes dilated with something like horror. Darting close to her side, he bent close to her ear, whispering, hoarsely: “Speak lower. What if you should be overheard, girl?” “You have made me reckless with your persecutions, and I scarcely care,” she breathed, almost defiantly. He shut his lips tightly over a stifled oath and stood with his arms folded on his breast, regarding her with a baffled air.