“Mamma,” her sweet voice full of wistfulness, “are not you happy?”
“I—happy?”
She has reached the door of her own room now, and opening it, passes within, followed closely by her daughter.
“Happy? Why, of course—of course I am happy! Ha! ha! Why not? Why should I be anything else but happy and—and gay? Now, go down-stairs, dear, back to your guests and the dance. And don’t forget, Violet, that you are only eighteen, and this is your first ball!”
The girl obeys unwillingly, for there is something strange in her mother’s face, and the dark eyes glitter wildly.
“Kiss me, mamma,” she pleads, throwing her white arms about her mother’s neck. “I shall be awfully uneasy about you all the time, and I will come back to you as soon as I can, and——”
“No, dear; don’t do that. I am going to retire now and rest. The music does not disturb me. I—I rather like to hear it. Kiss me again, Violet. Good-night, my baby. May God and the holy angels have you ever in their keeping! Good-bye—good-bye!”
And long afterward it struck home to Violet Arleigh’s heart, with all the force and intensity of a blow, how, instead of good-night, she had said good-bye!
Violet left the room reluctantly, and went down-stairs—went to join the handsome, dark-eyed young man upon the broad gallery overhung with trailing rose-vines, awaiting her impatiently. A moment more, and he had her in his arms, her golden head resting upon his breast.
“Violet—my Violet! You are mine, are you not?” he whispered, passionately.