In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had made their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to herself in the deepening twilight,—a twilight illumined brightly every now and again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log fire. Suddenly the door which had just been closed after the children, gently opened again, and Cicely entering, said in rather a tremulous voice—
"Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia."
Whereat she quickly disappeared.
Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched John's tall straight figure slowly approaching. A delicate, Spring-like odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that he carried a bunch of violets. Then she held out her hand.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!"
He tried to speak, but could not. Without a word he laid the violets gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch. She took them up at once and kissed them.
"How sweet they are!" she murmured—"The first I have had given to me this year!"
She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair close beside her.
"Will you sit near me?" she said—"And then we can talk!"
Silently he obeyed. To see her lying there so quietly resigned and helpless, nearly unmanned him, but he did brave battle with his own emotions. He took her little offered hand and gently kissed it. If to touch its soft smooth whiteness sent fire through his veins, there was no sign of feeling in his face. He was grave and strangely impassive.