An hour later her father was en route for New York, eagerly interested in his mission, and most anxious to do all he could to restore peace and happiness to Viola’s heart. As for her, she could not sleep for hours. She spent the night reclining on a low couch drawn near to Rolfe’s portrait, where her eyes could rest on it every time they opened from wakeful dozing. “Oh, is it true--is it true, my darling? Do you really live?” she cried over and over to the silent portrait, whose dark eyes seemed to rest on her in passionate love. She knew it was almost silly, talking thus to an insensate portrait, but she could not restrain the words of tenderness, falling from her lips. “Oh, my darling, my handsome, dark-eyed love, is it indeed true that you live? Shall I see you again, and will you love me still as you did that night when your saving love came between me and utter despair? Will you listen to my cry for forgiveness and love, and be happy that we are reunited forever?” Then Viola would weep tender, indignant tears to think of the long months that Rolfe had lain in the Spanish prison, an innocent victim, denied all communication with the outside world, his friends believing him dead, while he suffered tortures perhaps worse than death. Again she would kneel down and besiege Heaven with fervent prayers for Rolfe’s restoration to her yearning heart. At length she fell into a fitful repose that lasted till morning; but at the moment she finished breakfast she hastened to the cottage to carry her good news to Mrs. Maxwell and Mae. After all, it did not amount to much, that brief little newspaper report. There might not be a word of truth in it; but what joy it brought to their fond, loving hearts, and how they rejoiced to each other, building a whole world of splendid anticipations on Rolfe’s return. It was like a rift of light in the black darkness of a great despair, and Mae could be unselfishly glad now too, since she was happy in the love of another. Indeed, Florian came to call while Viola was there, and was speedily told the good news, whereat he unselfishly rejoiced with the rest. Indeed, sweet, gentle Mae had so crept into his heart that he no longer envied Rolfe Maxwell the prize of Viola’s love. He wished her every happiness, but his secret sympathies went out to Philip Desha, with whom he had made friends only yesterday, and had been told frankly that he was going to try again for Viola’s heart. It was late that night when Judge Van Lew returned from New York, but Viola was sitting up for him, too restless and agitated to retire until he came. It went to his heart, the pale look of anxiety on the lovely face as she glided toward him, and he cried out, reassuringly: “Cheer up, darling; I have goods news for you!” He took her little cold hands in his, and kissed her tenderly, as he added: