They assemble in the sick-room. The two stand close beside the bed, so near that St. Vincent can take his daughter's hand and give her away. The vows are uttered solemnly, the bond pronounced, "What God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
"Cecil," her father says, "I have married Miss Violet. She is to be your mamma and live with us. I hope you will love her."
Cecil studies her father with the utmost gravity, her eyes growing larger and more lustrous. Her breath comes with a sigh. "Papa," as if revolving something in her small mind, "madame cannot be my mamma now?"
"Madame——"
"Grandmamma said when I was just a little naughty this morning that I could not do so when madame was my mamma, that I would have to obey her."
"No, she never would have been that," he returns, with a touch of anger.
"You will love me!" Violet kneels before her and clasps her arms about the child, gives her the first kisses of her bridehood; and Cecil, awed by emotions she does not understand, draws a long, sobbing breath, and cries, "I do love you! I do love you!" hiding her face on Violet's shoulder.
Floyd Grandon has given his child something else to love. A quick, sharp pang pierces him.
There is a little momentary confusion, then Violet goes to her own father and lies many moments with his feeble arms about her, until a slight spasm stirs the worn frame.
It is as the doctor has predicted. A terrible restlessness ensues, a pressure for breath, the precursors of the fatal struggle. He begs that Violet will go out in the air again, she is so pale, but he does not want her to witness this agony. They have had some brief, fond talks, and she is safe. All the rest he will meet bravely.