CHAPTER XXII.
THE FADED PARCHMENT.
The days rolled on in the little fishing village, and the terrible drama which had convulsed it was still talked of and remembered, but with less vividness every day.
Up at the Cedars two sorrowful human beings, clad in black, were learning that bitter lesson which all must learn, to suffer and to bear.
Violet was their sole comfort in the hour of darkness.
She had given them the only explanation of the tragedy they would accept, namely that Leicester had slain Starling in self-defense and had himself fallen over the cliff into the sea.
Violet's plump roundness gradually toned down to a spareness which was grace itself, but, alas! strangely different to her old healthful vigor.
One other person beside the relations of Leicester mourned for him, and that was little, lame Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother.
To the poor, afflicted lad Leicester had seemed to be a beneficent god. The child adored the man who had, in so kindly and true a fashion, ministered to his wants, and no one shed more tears than little Jemmie.