Violet stole quietly away, and made her way to the house once more, and Jessie Glyndon never dreamed that she had been a spectator to her grief.
Violet found Leonard in the hall. He looked relieved at sight of her.
“I began to fear that you were never coming, sweetheart!” he said, as he joined her. “So you have been out in the grounds?”
Violet smiled. It was very pleasant to hear him speak in the same old, tender way once more.
“Yes, I have been looking about,” she returned. “By the way, Leonard, will you allow me to visit the east chamber while I am here? It has long been a desire of mine to do so.”
His face grew dark. He disliked the legend; and then, it was told of the Arleighs, and Violet was an Arleigh.
“It is nothing to be proud of, dear,” he said, quietly.
Violet’s face flushed.
“Indeed I am not proud of it, Leonard,” she cried; “but I wish to see the room very much. And, after all, it was my ancestors of whom the story was told. But there comes Hilda!”
Hilda floated into the room, a radiant vision, all in pure white garnitured with black velvet, looking lovely, as she always did.