e musings; and Rose went
round and round the fish-pond, revelling, so to speak, in them.

As her watch pointed to three, one of the stable-helpers came round from
the stables leading two horses. She knew them--one was Mr. Stanford's,
the other Kate's. A moment later, and Mr. Stanford and Kate appeared on
the front steps, "booted and spurred," and ready for their ride. The
Englishman helped his lady into the saddle, adjusted her long skirt, and
sprang lightly across his own steed. Rose would have given a good deal
to be miles away; but the fish-pond must be passed, and she, the "maiden
forlorn," must be seen. Kate gayly touched her plumed-hat; Kate's
cavalier bent to his saddle-bow, and then they were gone out of sight
among the budding trees.

"Heartless, cold-blooded flirt!" thought the second Miss Danton,
apostrophizing the handsomest of his sex. "I hope his horse may run away
with him and break his neck!"

But Rose did not mean this, and the ready tears were in her eyes the
next instant with pity for herself.

"It's too bad of him--it's too bad to treat me so! He knows I love him,
he made me think he loved me; and now to go and act like this. I'll
never stay here and see him marry Kate! I'd rather die first! I will die
or do something! I'll run away and become an actress or a nun--I don't
care much which. They're both romantic, and they are what people always
do in such cases--at least I have read a great many novels where they
did!" mused Miss Danton, still making her circle round the fish-pond.

Grace, calling from one of the windows to a servant passing below,
caused her to look towards the house, just in time to see something
white flutter from an open bedroom window on the breeze. The bedroom
regions ran all around the third story of Danton Hall--six in each
range. Mr. Stanford's chamber was in the front of the house, and it was
from Mr. Stanford's room the white object had fluttered. Rose watched it
as it alighted on a little unmelted snowbank, and, hurrying over, picked
it up. It was part of a letter--a sheet of note-paper torn in half, and
both sides closely written. It was in Reginald Stanford's hand and
without more ado (you will be shocked to hear it, though) Miss Rose
deliberately commenced reading it. It began abruptly with part of an
unfinished sentence.

--"That you call me a villain! Perhaps I shall not be a villain,
after all. The angel with the auburn ringlets is as much an angel