"I thought you were away fishing," said Kate. "Was Rose with you?"

"I was not so blessed. I had only Doctor Frank--Oh, don't be in a hurry
to leave us; it is not dinner-time yet."

This last to Rose, who was edging off, still the picture of confusion,
and one hand clutching something white, hidden in the folds of her
dress. With a confused apology, she turned suddenly, and disappeared
among the trees. Kate fixed her large, deep eyes suspiciously on her
lover's laughing face.

"Well?" she said, inquiringly.

"Well?" he repeated, mimicking her tone.

"What is the meaning of all this?"

Stanford laughed carelessly, and drew her hand within his arm.

"It means, my dear, that pretty sister of yours is a goose! I paid her a
compliment, and she blushed after it, at sight of you, as if I had been
talking love to her. Come, let us have a walk before dinner."

"I thought I saw you give her something? Was it a letter?"

Not a muscle of his face moved; not a shadow of change was in his tone,
as he answered:

"A letter! Of course not. You heard her the other day ask me for that
old English song that I sang? I wrote it out this afternoon, and gave it
to her. Are you jealous, Kate?"

"Dreadfully! Don't you go paying compliments to Rose, sir; reserve them
for me. Come down the tamarack walk."

Leaning fondly on his arm, Kate walked with her lover up and down the
green avenue until the dinner-bell summoned them in.

And all the time, Rose, up in her own room, was reading, with flushed
cheeks and glistening eyes, that letter written by the brook-side,
beginning, "Angel of my Dreams."

When the family assembled at dinner, it was found that Rose was absent.
A servant sent in search of her returned with word that Miss Rose had a
headache, and begged they would excuse her.

Kate went up to her room immediately after dinner. But found it locked.
She rapped, and called, but there was no sign, and no response from
within.

"She is asleep," thought Kate; and went down again.

She tried again, some hours later, on her way to her own room, but still
was unable to obtain entrance or answer. If she could only have seen
her, sitting by the window reading and re-reading that letter in French,
beginning "Angel of my Dreams."

Rose came down to breakfast next morning quite well again. The morning's
post had brought her a letter from Quebec, and she read it as she sipped
her coffee.

"Is it from Virginie Leblanc?" asked Eeny. "