The other thought was that old Aaron Rockharrt would never consent to live in a place which, however beautiful it might be, was too difficult of access and egress for a man of his age.

What, then, could be done to cheer the old man’s solitude at his home?  The only hope lay in the chance of Mr. Clarence finding a wife who might be acceptable to his father, and bringing her home to Rockhold.

The carriage drew up before the long, low villa, with its vine-clad porch, where, though the roses had faded and fallen, the still vivid green foliage and brilliant rose berries made a gay appearance.

Violet was not sitting on the porch, beside her little wicker workstand basket, as she always had been found by Cora in the earlier months of her residence there, but, nevertheless, she saw her visitor’s approach from the front windows of her sitting room, and ran out to meet her.

“Oh, so glad to see you!  And such a delightful surprise!” were the words with which she caught Cora in her arms, as the latter alighted from the carriage.

“How well you look, dear.  A real wood violet now, in your pretty purple robe,” said Corona, with assumed gayety, as she returned the little creature’s embrace, and went with her into the house.

“I am going to send the carriage to the stable.  You shall spend the afternoon and evening with me, whether you will or not, and whether the handsome lover breaks his heart or not!” exclaimed Violet, as they entered the parlor.

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear.  See, the man is driving around to the stable now, and I have come, not only to spend the afternoon, but the night with you,” said Cora, sitting down and beginning to unfasten her fur cloak.  “Will my uncle be late in returning this evening?”

“Fabian?  Oh, no! this is his early day.  He will be home very soon now.  But where did you leave his grace?  Why did he not escort you here?” inquired the little lady.

“Have you not heard that he has left Rockhold?” asked Corona, in her turn.

“Why, no.  I have heard nothing about him since the night of the dinner given in honor of your betrothal.  Are you tired, Cora, dear?  You look tired.  Shall I show you to your room, where you may bathe your face?” inquired Violet, noticing for the first time the pale and weary aspect of her visitor.

“No; but you may bring the baby here to see me.”

“My baby?  Oh, the little angel has just been put to sleep—­its afternoon sleep.  Come into the nursery, and I will show it to you,” exclaimed the proud and happy mother, starting up and leading the way to the upper floor and to a front room over the library, fitted up beautifully as a nursery.  Corona, on entering, was conscious of a blending of many soft bright colors, and of a subdued rainbow light, like the changes of the opal.

Violet led her directly to the cradle, an elegant structure of fine light wood, satin and lace, in which was enshrined the jewel, the treasure, the idol of the household—­a tiny, round-headed, pink-faced little atom of humanity, swathed in flannel, cambric and lace, and covered with fine linen sheets trimmed with lace, little lamb’s-wool blankets embroidered with silk, and a coverlet of satin in alternate tablets of rose, azure and pearl tablets.