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.
"Certainly, Violet, love. Don't mind me. Go."
Violet kissed her forehead and left the room.
Cora never touched the magazines, but sat with her elbow on the stand and her forehead resting on her hand.
She sat motionless, buried in painful thought until her Uncle Fabian entered the room.