d of pink-tinted
cheeks, soft hazel eyes, auburn curls, and a trim little foot and ankle,
when there was no living thing near to see and admire? What was the use
of dressing beautifully and looking charming for a pack of insensible
mortals, to whom it was an old story and not worth thinking about? The
sunny March day had no reflection in Rose's face; "sulky" is the only
word that will tell you how she looked. Poor Rose! It was rather hard to
be hopelessly in love, to be getting worse every day, and find it all of
no use. It was a little too bad to have everything she wanted for
eighteen years, and then be denied the fascinating young officer she had
set her whole heart on. For Mr. Stanford was lost again. Just as she
thought she had her bird snared for certain--lo! it spread its dazzling
wings and soared up to the clouds, and farther out of reach than ever.
In plain English, he had gone back to the old love and was off with the
new, just when she felt most sure of him.

A whole week had passed since that night in the tamarack walk, that
night when he had seemed so tender and lover-like, the matchless
deceiver! And he had hardly spoken half a dozen words to her. He was
back at the footstool of his first sovereign, he was the most devoted of
engaged men; Kate was queen of the hour, Rose was nowhere. It was
trying, it was cruel, it was shameful. Rose cried and scolded in the
seclusion of her maiden bower, and hated Mr. Stanford, or said she did;
and could have seen her beautiful elder sister in her winding-sheet with
all the pleasure in life.

So, this sunny afternoon, Rose was wandering listlessly hither and
thither, thinking the ice would soon break upon the fish-pond if this
weather lasted, and suicide would be the easiest thing in the world. She
walked dismally round and round it, and wondered what Mr. Stanford would
say, and how he would feel when some day, in the cold, sad twilight,
they would carry her, white, and lifeless, and dripping before him, one
more unfortunate gone to her death! She could see herself--robed in
white, her face whiter than her dress, her pretty auburn curls all wet
and streaming around her--carried into the desolate house. She could see
Reginald Stanford recoil, turn deadly pale, his whole future happiness
blasted at the sight. She pictured him in his horrible remorse giving up
Kate, and becoming a wanderer and a broken-hearted man all the rest of
his life. There was a dismal delight in thes