shame
for thinking that it had been so.

"I must decide to-morrow morning."

"They say, the pillow's the best counsellor."

A reply that presumed she would sleep appeared to her as bitterly
unfriendly.

"Did father wish it?"

"Not by what he spoke."

"You suppose he does wish it?"

"Where's the father who wouldn't? Of course, he wishes it. He's kind
enough, but you may be certain he wishes it."

"Oh! Dahlia, Dahlia!" Rhoda moaned, under a rush of new sensations,
unfilial, akin to those which her sister had distressed her by speaking
shamelessly out.

"Ah! poor soul!" added Robert.

"My darling must be brave: she must have great courage. Dahlia cannot be
a coward. I begin to see."

Rhoda threw up her face, and sat awhile as one who was reading old
matters by a fresh light.

"I can't think," she said, with a start. "Have I been dreadfully cruel?
Was I unsisterly? I have such a horror of some things--disgrace. And men
are so hard on women; and father--I felt for him. And I hated that base
man. It's his cousin and his name! I could almost fancy this trial is
brought round to me for punishment."

An ironic devil prompted Robert to say, "You can't let harm come to your
uncle."

The thing implied was the farthest in his idea of any woman's possible
duty.

"Are you of that opinion?" Rhoda questioned with her eyes, but uttered
nothing.

Now, he had spoken almost in the ironical tone. She should have noted
that. And how could a true-hearted girl suppose him capable of giving
such counsel to her whom he loved? It smote him with horror and anger;
but he was much too manly to betray these actual sentiments, and
continued to dissemble. You see, he had not forgiven her for her
indifference to him.

"You are no longer your own mistress," he said, meaning exactly the
reverse.

This--that she was bound in generosity to sacrifice herself--was what
Rhoda feared. There was no forceful passion in her bosom to burst through
the crowd of weak reasonings and vanities, to bid her be a woman, not a
puppet; and the passion in him, for which she craved, that she might be
taken up by it and whirled into forgetfulness, with a seal of betrothal
upon her lips, was absent so that she thought herself loved no more by
Robert. She was weary of thinking and acting on her own responsibility,
and would gladly have abandoned her will; yet her judgement, if she was
still to exercise it, told her that the step she was bidden to take w