"I will not put these," she said simply, touching the blue flowers, which lay beside the other bunch on the counterpane. "Father will not forget his Violet; for thou seest I am his little Violet—am I not, Aunt Lizzie? and he would much rather have those. I know he would."
There was such questioning anxiety in her eyes that her aunt hastened to reassure her.
"The violets are far the best," she said with decision. "The forget-me-nots are a present from the flower-woman to thyself."
"Oh, how kind—how lovely!" she said, almost in a whisper, as she lifted the blue flowers to cover the fast-rising blushes which the painful excitement of the moment kept ever driving to her cheeks.—"Aunt Lizzie, what is that?" She started up with a bitter cry. "It is the drum, it is the drum, and Violet is not dressed."
It was the drum. Her aunt went over to the window and looked out. Far, far away, down at the foot of the hill close by the church, she could see soldiers marching out of the Market-place and defiling into the square in front of the large fountain.
"Aunt Lizzie, is it the drum? Violet knows it is the drum, and she is not dressed to see father go by."
The cry grew to a shriek. Lizzie's face was deathly pale as she turned round, but she said quietly,—
"Do not fret, thou dear angel. Aunt Lizzie will put on thy dressing-gown and hold thee in her arms at the window."
"Quick, quick!" screamed Violet, snatching up the bunch of violets; "they are coming quite close; I hear them."
"They are still a long way off," said her aunt reassuringly; "it will take them nearly ten minutes to reach to the top of the hill."