t Rose was overcome with grief. It
was not until six weeks later that, standing before the cheval-glass,
she noticed how very well she looked in black. She worked harder than
ever at the task of self-improvement, until her health broke down. Then
two things happened simultaneously. She was ordered into the country,
and her papa went to take up an important post in Paris.

Rose lived now in a cottage up on a hill with a refined and elderly
lady-companion. Beyond the garden of the cottage was common-land. Here
the bracken grew waist-high, and you might see as many foxgloves in ten
minutes as you would find in London in ten years. Sheep roamed among the
bracken. The difference between the face of the lady-companion and the
face of one of those sheep was hardly noticeable; they also had
similarities in disposition.

When the lady-companion slept--and she was a perfectly grand
sleeper--Rose wandered all the afternoon about the common. She was not
improving herself any longer, because that was held to be bad for her
health. She worried because she felt that she had lost the love of
people. The longer she lived in the country, the more she wanted to be
loved. She even put tentative questions to the lady-companion, to find
out how it was that she was not loved. But these tentative questions
were of no use, because the lady-companion maintained that Rose was
loved very much indeed, being under the impression that this was the
kind of thing that she was paid to say. She was a conscientious woman.

And then one night Rose had a dream. In her dream she heard a loud
knocking at the cottage door, and she herself went to see who was there.

There stood a very ugly old pedlar with a leer on his face, and a pack
on his back. He swung his pack round and took off the piece of American
cloth from the top of it.

"And what can I sell you to-day, my pretty lady?" he asked.

"Nothing, thank you," said Rose.

"Don't say that," said the pedlar. "You have dealt with me before, you
know."

"Never," said Rose. "You are mistaken."

"Yes, you did," said the ugly old man stoutly. "You bought a packet of
Amoricide, and those that deal with me once must deal with me again."

"What is Amoricide?" asked Rose, who began to have a feeling that after
all she did recognise the pedlar's face.

"Well, well," said the pedlar, "that's telling. I don't mind owning that
there is a lot of the Air of Superiority in it, and there are other
things. You ha