can sing no more to-night," and she closed the piano.
"Thank you! you have an angel's voice, Violet. God bless you!"
He took one of her delicate hands into his, pressed it tenderly, raised it to his lips. Then, with a start, he let it fall, trembled violently, and but for Violet's aid would have fallen. The tears stood in Violet's eyes, and her heart beat with painful quickness. A new emotion—marvellous, half painful,—seemed to be restless in her heart. What could it mean?
With some difficulty the invalid regained his room.
CHAPTER VIII. MADGE.
The sisters occupied one bedroom.
Long after Madge had drifted into a deep sleep—she had kept awake to the last moment, talking upon all sorts of subjects with customary volubility; one or two of her more recent observations had indeed been in regard to topics well understood probably in dreamland, but slightly vague and meaningless in more material regions—long after this Violet Fuller's deep grey eyes were full open, painfully open, with a feeling that rest would not come to them; that a whirl of thoughts oppressed her brain, dazing and fevering; that there was a trouble within her that warred against and hindered repose. How she envied the perfect slumber of her sister—Madge of the large heart, with room in it for an universal affection, with her love not yet individualised and concentrated and brought to a focus; not yet in its immaturity appreciating the whole felicity of which it was capable, but still free from one single throb of pain, one suspicion of uneasiness! Madge, deep asleep, unconscious, beautiful, happy, and Violet, the calm, the placid, the apparently impassive, whence had gone that charm of perfect repose, soothing as soft music, which had been formerly one of her especial characteristics? Why that hectic colour in her cheeks? Why that new brilliance in her eyes? She raised her hands to smooth her hair from her forehead, and was startled to find how fiercely it burned, how violently beat the pulsings of her temple. She could no longer evade the question that seemed to present itself to her on every side with the persistence of persecution. Did she love?
Yesterday there had been no thought of such a matter. The rich stores of her heart were hidden from all; she was content with her life, had no wish unfulfilled, no ambition to satisfy. Through what agency was it that light from without had now stolen to those latent treasures and betrayed their value and beauty to herself, to the world? for so it seemed now, what was so clear to herself must be as apparent to others. She loved furtively, screened as she thought by her serenity, yet it needed but a glance from his eyes, a pressure from his hand, to reveal the whole secret, to tear away her mask. A sense of shame came over her at being discovered, a sense of unworthiness; with her reputation for good sense and propriety of demeanour, (some of the Grilling Abbots ladies had even accused her of prudery!) the head of her father's household, filling a mother's part to her younger sister, ought she to have gone down in this effortless way, at the first hint? The tears rushed into her eyes, and she sobbed audibly. It was quite as well that Madge was a sound sleeper.
Her compassion had betrayed her into love; her pity for the sufferer—her sympathy—had brought about this cruel result, for it was cruel; she had never before in her whole life felt so truly miserable, and but for that overt act of homage that night during her singing her secret had been kept, she should never have known the state of her heart, all would have been well. She wished that she had never learned how to sing, that her voice had gone—at least for that night—that she had never thought of opening the piano. What mad freak prompted her to do so? She had not for a very long while done such a thing. But for that she had been safe and happy, and Wilford would have got well and left them, and she had never dreamed of loving him. Left them? She had never contemplated that before. Would he leave them? Leave her? Now that—yes!—now that she loved him? For she could not help it, and she owned she loved him. Would he go away from the cottage for ever? Oh, heaven! she would sooner die than such a thing should happen. Never to see him more! It would be death!
And then, of course, more tears.
This was in the first turbulence of her new discovery. By and by came calmer thoughts. Did he love her? And her cheeks crimsoned. What happiness if he did! What to her were all the stories about his past life? Did she not know him in the present? Had he not borne the pains of his malady with the patience of a saint? Yes; he loved her! She had read it in his eyes—eyes glowing with truth—eyes that could not lie. He loved her—perhaps—very likely—certainly—Oh, he must!—there could be no doubt about it! And with that solacing thought hugged tight to her heart Violet Fuller at last fell happily asleep.
How habit masters emotion! It would have needed a very close observer indeed to have remarked any change in Violet Fuller's manner as on the morrow she pursued her wonted domestic duties. To all appearance her demeanour was the same as usual—simple and calm as ever. Perhaps, on closer study, a certain under-current of restlessness might have been detected; but its manifestations were but slight, the surface was singularly unruffled. Doctor Fuller perceived no change, nor did sister Madge—if Wilford Hadfield noticed it, he held his peace upon the matter.
Words are hardly necessary to lovers; certainly they are not needed at the commencement of love; it is at later stages that oral evidence is wanted by way of confirmation to remove all doubts and satisfy bystanders. But at first, eyes are sufficiently eloquent, and manner tells the story pretty plainly. Perhaps it is better that happiness should come to us at first in not too unqualified a way; it is better to begin not so much "with a little aversion" as with a little uncertainty as to the issue. Violet looked into Wilford's eyes and doubted; Wilford read Violet's glances and trembled—yet each saw enough to make them both very