“Sweet Violet, I love you!” cried Cecil Grant, ardently, and he sank down beside her, catching her little snowflake of a hand in his, pleading tenderly:
“I adore you, my little darling! Will you be my wife?”
It was an abrupt proposal, but Cecil knew that his tete-a-tetes with Violet were always interrupted by Amber, so when he saw his darling stealing down to the river all alone, he said to himself that he would follow and make hay while the sun shone.
He did not think that any one had seen him going toward the house, so he changed his course and went after Violet.
And he was just in time to catch her sorrowful, wondering exclamations over his supposed perfidy.
He comprehended like a flash the deceitful game Amber Laurens had been playing, and determined that sweet Violet should not doubt him a moment longer.
So, while the summer sunset was gilding the sky and the waves with molten gold, and the bird sang to his mate in the greenwood tree, the blue-eyed little beauty listened, beneath the shady willows, to the sweetest story man ever breathed to woman’s ears. The old but ever new story of Love.
And no nobler man than Cecil Grant ever whispered the story, no fairer, purer maiden than Violet ever listened to it with blushes of tender joy.
But the summer breeze, as it sighed through the willows, had a mournful sound, and the river gliding by the green, flowery banks murmured low of mystery and tragedy and sorrow.
“Cecil, I cannot marry you!” cried Violet, and she added, sadly: