The delighted mother and the admiring visitor stood gazing at the babe, and talking in low tones for ten or fifteen minutes perhaps, and were then admonished by the nurse—­an experienced woman—­that it was not good for such young babies to be looked over and talked over so long when they were asleep.

Violet and her visitor softly withdrew from the cradle, and Corona had leisure to look around the lovely room, the carpet of tender green, like the first spring grass, and dotted over with buttercups and daisies; the wall paper of pearl white, with a vine of red and white roses running over it; the furniture of curled maple, upholstered in fine chintz, in colors to match the wall paper.  But the window curtains were the marvels of the apartment.  There were two high front windows, draped in rainbow silk—­that is, each breadth of the hangings was in perfect rainbow stripes, and the effect of the light streaming through them was soft, bright, and very beautiful.

“It is a creation!  Whose?” inquired Corona, as she stood before one of the windows.

“Well, it was my idea, though I am not at all noted for ideas, as everybody knows,” said Violet, with a smile.  “But I wanted my baby’s first impressions of life to be serenely delightful through every sense.  I wanted her to see, when she should open her eyes in the morning, a sphere of soft light and bright, delicate shades of color.  So I prepared this room.”

“But where did you find the rainbow draperies?”

“Oh, them!  I designed them for my baby, and Fabian sent the pattern to Paris, and we received the goods in due time.  I will tell you another thing.  I have an AEolian harp for her.  It is under the front window of the upper hall, but its aerial music can reach her here when it is in place.  When she is a little stronger I am going to have a music box for her.  Oh, I want my little baby to live in a sphere of ’sweet sights, sweet sounds, soft touches.’”

A brisk, firm footstep, a cheery, ringing voice in the hall below, arrested the conversation of the two women.

“It is Fabian!  Come!” exclaimed Violet, joyfully, leading the way down stairs.

Mr. Fabian stood at the foot.  He embraced his young wife boisterously, and then seeing Cora coming down stairs behind Violet, went and shook hands with his niece, saying: 

“Glad to see you!  Glad to see you!  Has Violet been showing you our little goddess?  I tell you what, Cora:  everything has changed since that usurper came.  This place is no longer ‘Violet Banks’ It is the Holy Hill.  This house is the temple; that nursery is the sanctuary; that cradle is the altar; and that babe is the idol of the community.  Now go along with Violet.  Oh! she is high priestess to the idol.  Go along.  I’m going to wash my face and hands, and then I’ll join you.”

Mr. Fabian went up stairs, and Cora followed Violet into the parlor.

“Here are the English magazines, my dear, come this morning.  Will you look over them, while I go and see to the dinner table?  I will not be gone more than ten minutes,” said Violet, lifting a pile of pamphlets from a side table and placing them on a little stand near the easy chair into which Corona had thrown herself.