"I know you do."

"But Dick is suffering; and I am sorry for him."

"We have no right to be sorry for the wicked. The wicked ought to
suffer; sympathy for them, or with them, is not blessed. I am so glad
to see you crying, Rose. If you sent that letter, it would trouble
your soul, as a mote in your eye would torture your sight. In both
cases, the trouble would be to wash out with tears. Give me the
letter, and I will destroy it."

Then Rose laid it upon the table, and buried her face in her pillow,
sobbing bitterly, "I do like Dick! Right or wrong, I want to see
him."

"I may tear up the letter, Rose? It must be done. Shall I do it?"

"Could you not let Dick call at your house once? Only once?"

"It is not my house. I should have to ask father."

"Only once, Yanna!"

"Things that are permissible 'only once' ought never to be done at
all. Do you remember how often Miss Mitchell told us that?"

"Miss Mitchell never had a lover in her life. People always do see
lovers 'once more.'"

"Then ask Mrs. Filmer if you cannot do so."

"Certainly, she could not be more cruel than you are. Oh, Yanna! I am
so disappointed in you!"

Then Yanna began to cry, and the girls mingled their tears; and when
they had swept away their disappointment in each other, the letter was
torn into little shreds as a peace offering; and they bathed their
faces, and lay down for an hour. Yanna was sure she had conquered;
but it was but a temporary victory; for as soon as she was alone, Rose
began to blame herself.

"I always was under that girl," she thought, "and I quite forgot about
her father being only a stone mason. Poor Dick! I must send him
half-a-dozen lines; and suppose I tell him that I walk in the
mornings, by the little lake in the woods called 'Laurel Water'? If he
finds me out there, he will deserve to see me; and if not--there is no
harm done."

Yet this second letter, though written and sent, was not conceived
with any satisfaction. Rose was conscience-hurt all the time she
penned it; and very restless and unhappy after it had passed beyond
her control. For she was in general obedient to the voice within her;
expediency and propriety had both told her at the first, "You had
better not write," and she had not heeded them in the least; but she
did find it very difficult to silence the imperative, "_Thou shalt
not!_" of conscience. Still, it was done. Then she reflected that Dick
would get her letter on Saturday morning,