hile Rose was in no small excitement. While her mother and Elsmere
had been talking in the garden, she had been discreetly waiting in the
back behind the angle of the house, and when she saw Elsmere walk off
she followed him with eager, sympathetic eyes.

'Poor fellow!' she said to herself, but this time with the little tone
of patronage which a girl of eighteen, conscious of graces and good
looks, never shrinks from assuming toward an elder male, especially a
male in love with someone else. 'I wonder whether he thinks he knows
anything about Catherine.'

But her own feeling, to-day was very soft and complex. Yesterday it
had been all hot rebellion. To-day it was all remorse and wondering
curiosity. What had brought Catherine into her room, with that white
face, and that bewildering change of policy? What had made her do this
brusque, discourteous thing to-day? Rose, having been delayed by the
loss of one of her goloshes in a bog, had been once near her and Elsmere
during that dripping descent from Shanmoor. They had been so clearly
absorbed in one another that she had fled on guiltily to Agnes, golosh
in hand, without waiting to put it on; confident, however, that neither
Elsmere nor Catherine had been aware of her little adventure. And at the
Shanmoor tea Catherine herself had discussed the picnic, offering, in
fact, to guide the party to a particular ghyll in High Fell, better
known to her than anyone else.

'Oh, of course it's our salvation in this world and the next that's
in the way,' thought Rose, sitting crouched up in a grassy nook in the
garden, her shoulders up to her ears, her chin in her hands. 'I wish
to goodness Catherine wouldn't think so much about mine, at any rate.
I hate,' added this incorrigible young person, 'I hate being the third
part of a "moral obstacle" against my will. I declare I don't believe we
should any of us go to perdition even if Catherine did marry. And what a
wretch I am to think so after last night! Oh, dear, I wish she'd let me
do something for her; I wish she'd ask me to black her boots for her,
or put in her tuckers, or tidy her drawers for her, or anything worse
still, and I'd do it and welcome!'

It was getting uncomfortably serious all round, Rose admitted. But there
was one element of comedy besides Mrs. Thornburgh, and that was Mrs.
Leyburn's unconsciousness.

'Mamma, is too good,' thought the girl, with a little ripple of
laughter. 'She takes it as a matter of course