“That must end at once.”

A quarter of an hour later, when all the confusion was over, Violet was kneeling by her mother’s chair, trying to restore tranquillity to Mrs. Winstanley’s fluttered spirits. Mother and daughter were alone together in the elder lady’s dressing-room, the disconsolate Pamela sitting, like Niobe, amidst her scattered fineries, her pomade-pots and powder-boxes, fan-cases and jewel-caskets, and all the arsenal of waning beauty.
“Dear mother,” pleaded Violet, with unusual gentleness, “pray don’t give way to this unnecessary grief. You cannot surely believe that I tried to set this dear old home on fire — that I could be so foolish — granting even that I were wicked enough to do it — as to destroy a place I love — the house in which my father was born! You can’t believe such a thing, mother.”
“I know that you are making my life miserable,” sobbed Mrs. Winstanley, feebly dabbing her forehead with a flimsy Valenciennes bordered handkerchief, steeped in eau-de-cologne, “and I am sure Conrad would not tell a falsehood.”
“Perhaps not,” said Vixen with a gloomy look. “We will take it for granted that he is perfection and could not do wrong. But in this case he is mistaken. I felt quite capable of killing him, but not of setting fire to this house.”
“Oh,” wailed Pamela distractedly, “this is too dreadful! To think that I should have a daughter who confesses herself at heart a murderess.”
“Unhappily it is true, mother,” said Vixen, moodily contrite. “For just that one moment of my life I felt a murderous impulse — and from the impulse to the execution is a very short step. I don’t feel myself very superior to the people who are hanged at Newgate, I assure you.”
“What is to become of me?” inquired Mrs. Winstanley in abject lamentation. “It is too hard that my own daughter should be a source of misery in my married life, that she should harden her heart against the best of stepfathers, and try, yes, actually try, to bring discord between me and the husband I love. I don’t know what I have done that I should be so miserable.”
“Dear mother, only be calm and listen to me,” urged Violet, who was very calm herself, with a coldly resolute air which presently obtained ascendency over her agitated parent. “If I have been the source of misery, that misery cannot too soon come to an end. I have long felt that I have no place in this house — that I am one too many in our small family. I feel now — yes, mamma, I feel and know that the same roof cannot cover me and Captain Winstanley. He and I can no longer sit at the same board, or live in the same house. That must end at once.”
“What complaint can you have to make against him, Violet?” cried her mother hysterically, and with a good deal more dabbing of the perfumed handkerchief upon her fevered brow. “I am sure no father could be kinder than Conrad would be to you if you would only let him. But you have set yourself against him from the very first. It seems as if you grudged me my happiness.”
“It shall seem so no longer, mamma. I will cease to be a thorn in your garland of roses,” replied Vixen, with exceeding bitterness. “I will leave the Abbey House directly any other home can be found for me. If dear old McCroke would take care of me I should like to go abroad, somewhere very far, to some strange place, where all things would be different and new to me,” continued Vixen, unconsciously betraying that aching desire for forgetfulness natural to a wounded heart. “Sweden, or Norway, for instance. I think I should like to spend a year in one of those cold strange lands, with good old McCroke for my companion. There would be nothing to remind me of the Forest,” she concluded with a stifled sob.
“My dear Violet, you have such wild ideas,” exclaimed her mother with an injured air. “It is just as Conrad says. You have no notion of the proprieties. Sweden or............