THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
81 
his selfish desire for a baby sister that the child might 
have a bright future. No small sacrifice, either, for a 
loving lad who felt his right to own the one he had 
found and saved. 
So when the Easter bells were ringing gaily and the 
sun was brightly shining, Paul was allowed to carry the 
baby to the rich widow’s house. He would yield the 
infant to no nurse, however, and they had to usher the 
boy and the baby both into the young mourner’s presence. 
Mrs. Esterton was delighted ; the touch of baby fingers, 
the sound of a baby voice broke up the fountains of her 
Badness, and she wept wildly for a time, and then 
made little Paul tell all the story of his finding. 
‘■And please ma’am,” pleaded Paul in conclusion, 
“won’t you be willing to let her be called Violet ? I 
think God meant it, seeing that I was hunting Violets 
and found her instead ! ” 
And Mrs. Esterton, in her joy, assured the boy that 
should bo the baby’s name, and that he should see and 
love and play with the little Violet whenever he pleased. 
As the years went by the little child grew in beauty 
and grace, and the strongest friendship existed between 
Violet and Paul. 
The little girl lived in luxury, received the best edu¬ 
cation, was trained in all that goes to make a fine 
woman of the world. Beauty and wealth and graco 
were hers. 
Little Paul Morgan grew from boyhood to young man¬ 
hood, battled with poverty; had his hopes and sorrows 
and disappointments through which Viola cheered and 
comforted him. And at last, ■when his gentle mother 
expressed the one great desire of her life, that Paul 
should enter the ministry, he consented, though, with¬ 
out doubt, nature had designed the boy for an artist. 
Fifteen years later and another Easter-day is dawning. 
But the world is iu a better mood than on that chill, 
rough day so long ago. 
On all hands the grass is green, the trees wear a de¬ 
cided hazy veil of opening buds, and the golden sun¬ 
shine wraps all the world in warmth and hope. 
All the air is filled with the melody of church bells 
ringing forth merrily the good news that “The Lord is 
risen indeed.” 
Mrs. Esterton’s handsome rooms were filled with 
bloom and fragrance; through the open windows floated 
in on the sunshine a delicious odor of Violets, and in 
the distance could be seen the flowing shining river 
where the sunbeams and little flirty breezes worked the 
sparkling surface into fretted gold for the time being. 
Sweet balsamic odors arose from the budding trees, 
and there was really a decided tint of lavender on the 
already verdant Lilac bushes by the window. 
Violet Esterton was the fairest blossom that bloomed 
in all that wealth and elegance. Her chieftest charm, 
at present, was the youth and freshness about her. No 
thought of care had ever crossed the low, broad brow ; 
no knowledge of sin had ever shadowed the brown eyes. 
She was as pure and perfect, as guileless as the deli¬ 
cate, dainty blossoms whose name she bore, whose hue 
she loved, and whom she called her guardian saints. 
She was tall and slendei, and even as a mere child in 
her earliest “ teens ” was looked upon with wonder and 
admiration for her beauty. 
Her skin was like the snow-banks from which early 
Violets spring; her lips had caught the crimson from 
the sunset clouds that illumined the lonely wood sand 
dells whence she had come. Her eyes were soft and 
diamond-bright like the dew-drops that nightly nestled 
in the Violets’ pure hearts. She was pure and beautiful, 
delicious and tender as the fragrant dainty Violets—her 
god-parents. 
And Paul Morgan had come to say adieu to his little 
woodland treasure. Every means had been taken to 
discover the secret concerning this woodland waif, but 
as years had gone by and no light been thrown upon 
the past, Mrs. Esterton had become quiet and securo in 
her possession. 
No concealment had ever been practised about it. 
Violet knew all there was to know. 
Many a Summer day had Paul and the child spent in 
Van Dacre's wood, and innumerable were the times 
Paul had had to show her just the spot where he had 
fancied white Violets were blooming, and found instead 
the sweet human blossom. 
To Violet, Paul was everything; guardian, friend, 
protector. 
She had a pretty imperious way of claiming him 
rather than seeing that he had found her! 
And he was wholly her humble slave from that hour 
when she had locked her tiny hand about his finger as 
he carried her to shelter, life, warmth, comfort and 
home. From the time Paul gave her to Mrs. Esterton 
he had been chief companion and playmate. Some¬ 
times Mrs. Esterton’s fashionable friends would remon¬ 
strate, and ask did she think it just the thing to allow a 
a poor boy, a boy of no especial class or caste, to asso¬ 
ciate so freely with the little girl, and might she not bo 
contaminated in thought, or speech, or manner, by so 
low a lad?” 
“ I cannot fail to ever remember,” she always an¬ 
swered, “that he has really the best right to Violet. 
He found my treasure, and I assure you Paul is not low, 
nor vulgar, nor uneducated. Violet is wholly safe with 
him. He worships her, and so does Bruno ! She is as 
safe with one faithful friend as the other ! ” 
And so the boy, with dog-like fidelity, had worshipped 
and guarded her for fifteen or sixteen years, and had 
come now to bid his charge farewell as he started off to 
finish his studies. 
“See, Violet, I have brought you this, and have a 
favor to ask.” 
“What is it Paul?” and the dark brown eyes rose 
candidly to liis so blue, burning now with a deeper hght 
than usual. 
He was tempted, sorely. He was going away for 
many years, and he was tempted to ask a lover’s kiss 
at parting. But his better sense, his kinder heart as¬ 
serted itself, and discretion too. He knew that now 
she held none dearer than himsolf, but to call for love 
in that dreaming, childish heart—ah no 1 Let her live 
on in peace a few years more. All too soon would some 
profane hand essay to strike sweet music from her 
heart’s chords, and he—Paul—could never hope to be 
more to her than simply—her Paul! He had brought 
her a jar of blossoms, a handsome, painted dish, and 
down in Van Dacre’s dell he had procured a growthy 
plant of white Violets. 
The plant stood on the window-sill before them ex¬ 
haling a strangely sweet perfume, and holding up trem¬ 
bling, pure blossoms of snowy whiteness, their hearts 
just tinting to gold. 
“Violet, next Easter I shall not be here! You will 
