ing else would make me happy,--then
she will be reconciled, and she and I perhaps will make friends, all
over again, from the beginning. I won't be angry or hard over it--poor
Cathie!'

And with regard to Mr. Flaxman. As she stands there waiting idly for
what destiny may send her, she puts herself through a little light
catechism about this other friend of hers. He had behaved somewhat oddly
toward her of late; she begins now to remember that her exit from Lady
Charlotte's house the night before had been a very different matter from
the royally attended leave takings, presided over by Mr. Flaxman, which
generally befell her there. Had he understood? With a little toss of
her head she said to herself that she did not care if it was so. 'I have
never encouraged Mr. Flaxman to think I was going to marry him.'

But of course Mr. Flaxman will consider she has done badly for herself.
So will Lady Charlotte and all her outer world. They will say she is
dismally throwing herself away, and her mother, no doubt influenced by
the clamor, will take up very much the same line.

What matter! The girl's spirit seemed to rise against all the world.
There was a sort of romantic exaltation in her sacrifice of herself,
a jubilant looking forward to remonstrance, a wilful determination to
overcome it. That she was about to do the last thing she could have been
expected to do, gave her pleasure. Almost all artistic faculty goes with
a love of surprise and caprice in life. Rose had her full share of the
artistic love for the impossible and the difficult.

Besides--success! To make a man hope and love, and live again--_that_
shall be her success. She leaned against the window, her eyes filling,
her heart very soft.

Suddenly she saw a commissionaire coming up the little flagged
passage to the door. He gave in a note, and immediately afterward the
dining-room door opened.

'A letter for you, Miss,' said the maid.

Rose took it--glanced at the hand-writing. A bright flush--a
surreptitious glance at Catherine, who sat absorbed in a wandering
letter from, Mrs. Darcy. Then the girl carried her prize to the window
and opened it.

Catherine read on, gathering up, the Murewell names and details as
some famished gleaner might gather up the scattered ears on a plundered
field. At last something in the silence of the room, and of the other
inmate in it, struck her.

'Rose,' she said, looking up, 'was that someone brought you a note?'

The g