Then she grew pale with a sudden fear and dread.
What would be the outcome of this interview?
Would it bring her happiness or sorrow?
With trembling limbs, and a face that was as white as the delicate lace about her throat, she went slowly toward the drawing-room to learn her fate.
Wallace, no less nervous and perturbed than herself, was pacing the elegant apartment, but stopped and turned eagerly toward Violet as she entered, his face luminous in spite of the stern self-control which he had resolved to exercise.
All the light died out of it however as he saw how pale she was.
"Violet!—Miss Huntington! are you ill?" he cried, regarding her anxiously.
Again the rich color surged up to her brow at the sound of his dear voice, for the tremulous tenderness in it told her that his heart was all her own, and her elastic spirits rebounded at once.
She shot a shy, sweet glance up into his earnest face, a witching little smile began to quiver about her lovely lips, then she said, half-saucily, but with charming confusion:
"No—I am not ill; I—was only afraid that I had done something dreadful. Have I?"