La Violette bowed her golden head and wept convulsively. Duke thrust his cold muzzle against her hand, in token of sympathy. Impulsively the girl threw her arms around the animal’s neck, and hugged him. Then she again hid her face and gave way to her acute grief. Already she was beginning to taste the bitter dregs in the bottom of the cup of love.
Bradford arose, and, lightly moving to her side, laid his hand upon her shoulder. She sprang to her feet, an exclamation of alarm upon her lips. When she saw who it was that confronted her, she proudly threw back her head—her eyes alight with anger. Tossing aside her disheveled hair, she cried scornfully:
“Hiram Bradford, you have been spying upon me.”
“I was awake,” he returned quietly. “I saw all. You love him.”
Her face grew crimson—then paled.
“And if I do?” she said defiantly.
“Nothing,” he answered, his husky voice huskier than usual. “I’m glad you do love him. And—if he live—he shall be yours. You were made for each other.”
“Do—do you think he is—is going to die?” she asked falteringly.
“No; we two will save him. He’ll learn to love you—the lesson will not be a hard one.”
“But——” and she hesitated.