But there was no change in Amber. She lay unconscious, as on the night before; and Cecil left his mother at the cottage, and rode to Golden Willows to see Violet.
She came to meet him, so bright, so beautiful, in her soft, white cashmere morning-dress, bound at the waist with a white silken cord, and all her golden curls loose about her shoulders, like ripples of spun gold. The sweet rosebud lips were lifted frankly for his fond kiss.
“Grandpapa is so much better this morning. He has been talking to us—telling us”—she said, and paused.
“Of Harold Castello’s death?” asked Cecil.
“Yes,” she answered, “and Lena was very glad that he repented his sins before he died. He had a priest sent for, and confessed his sins and received absolution. He left a message for me, praying my pardon for his sins against me, and that I would never reveal all the evil I knew of him, since he had passed beyond earthly punishment to the bar of Heaven. Cecil,” and she lifted her wistful blue eyes to his adoring face.
“What is it, my darling?”
She answered, with a catch in her breath, like a repressed sob:
“I knew much evil of this man that I have never spoken. Is it right for me to keep silence now?”
“Yes, Violet, it is right. The dead are sacred. If we cannot speak in praise of them, and if silence can wrong no one, it is best.”
“I am glad you think so, for his terrible suffering in death has touched my heart. And Lena forgives him now, and his wrongs against her were greater than mine.”