When Mr. Fabian came to pay his usual visit the next morning, Mrs. Pendletime received him, thanked him profusely for his munificent gift, telling him at the same time that she should certainly never have accepted such a costly present from any one who was not connected or about to be connected with her family.  Mr. Fabian bowed deprecatingly and asked if he might be permitted to see Miss Wood.  Surely he might, she had only intercepted him to thank him for his gift.  Then she told him that he would find Violet alone in the drawing room.  He went in, and found the little creature perched upon the music stool, before the open piano, trying a new piece of music.  She lighted down like a little bird from a twig and came to meet him.  He greeted his betrothed with more warmth of love than a younger man might have ventured upon—­but, then, Mr. Fabian was no freshman in the college of love.  And Violet, though she did not like to be squeezed so tight and kissed so much, thought it was all right, since he was her first lover and her betrothed husband.  She was not sufficiently in love with him to be afraid of him.  This was as if one of her school girl friends had hugged and kissed her so much.  When they were seated side by side on the sofa, Mr. Fabian told her that immediately after their wedding breakfast they should take the train for New York and thence sail for Liverpool.  They should reach London near the beginning of the fashionable season, which is not winter, as with us, but spring.

Violet listened in the rapture of anticipation.

“And at the end of the London season we will make a leisurely tour through England—­see the monuments of its great old history; palaces and castles of kings and chieftains who have been dust for ages.  Then the homes and haunts of the great poets and painters.”

The door opened, and the servant announced a visitor.  Mr. Fabian, secure now of his prize, arose and said good morning, leaving Violet to entertain one of her young adorers.  Mr. Fabian went home and sought his father in the library, where the old man now passed much of his time.

“Well, my dear sir, it is all settled.  With your approbation, we—­Miss Violet Wood and myself—­will be married on the fourteenth proximo, and leave for Europe immediately afterward,” said Mr. Fabian, seating himself.

“That is right.  I am glad that you will sail in February.  You will thereby escape the winds of March and the tempests of the spring equinox,” said the Iron King, sententiously.

“I am very glad you approve,” said Mr. Fabian.

Old Aaron Rockharrt nodded in silence.

Fabian looked at him; saw that the old man looked grave, depressed, yet stern and strong as adamant.  He felt very sorry for his father.  His own present happiness rendered good-natured Mr. Fabian very compassionate toward the lonely old widower.  He had something, inspired by this compassion, to suggest to the old man, yet he feared to do so straightforwardly.