“He was so noble after all, and perhaps if I had married him I never should have realized that I was capable of a deeper emotion than the gentle affection I felt for him,” she thought; then her mind wandered to the dead, and she sobbed, miserably, yearningly: “Oh, Rolfe, my darling, could you but return and know how I have loved you all the while!” Meanwhile Judge Van Lew and his sister had retired to the library and were perusing the evening papers, having felt it best to leave Viola alone with her lover, feeling that a reconciliation would take place. Suddenly Aunt Edwina started and leaned across the table, putting her shaking finger on a paragraph in her paper, while she exclaimed: “Good heavens, Edmund, read this!” He obeyed, and then they stared at each other with ashen faces. “Can it be true?” she queried. “Very likely. And I should hope so if it were for her happiness; but what a time for it to happen, just as she is making up with Desha!” half groaned the judge. “Ought we to go and tell them now?” she asked, nervously. “No; let us wait till he is gone, and break it as gently as possible. Poor Viola, will she be glad or sorry, I wonder?” mused the judge, and his sister answered, thoughtfully: “To judge from the way she has carried on, I should say glad; but still I believe it was all for effect and to punish Desha. Why, there he is going now!” she added, starting up from her seat. “Then you can take the paper and show her the paragraph, Edwina,” suggested her brother. “Not me! You must break it to her yourself,” she insisted; and the upshot of it was that they went presently together to Viola, who dashed away the lingering tears and turned to meet them with a pensive smile. The judge began with a sorry attempt at cheerfulness. “I--er--so I suppose you and Professor Desha have been making it up, dear?” To his relief she answered, frankly: “I have passed through a very unpleasant scene, papa. He came to offer me his hand again.” “And you--you accepted,” he began, nervously. “No, papa, I refused him. I found out long ago that it was but a passing fancy I had for him, and that if my poor Rolfe had lived I could have loved him more than any other man I ever knew,” Viola answered, sorrowfully. “Then you will be very glad to read this paragraph, my dear,” the judge exclaimed, gayly, pointing it out to her with a shaking finger. CHAPTER XXXVII. BON VOYAGE. Viola saw that her father was deeply agitated over something, and cried out, excitedly: “What is it, papa?” “Read it, my dear, read it for yourself!” rejoined the judge, eagerly. “Read it, my dear!” echoed her aunt, earnestly. Viola’s eyes were so dim with the tears she had copiously shed out of sympathy with Philip Desha that at first she could scarcely see the lines, they wavered so before her gaze. She wiped them with her soft lace handkerchief, and made another effort to read the short paragraph that ran as follows: