heir way they
passed a door, beside which Catherine paused hesitating, and then with
a bright flush on the face, which had such maternal calm in it already,
she threw her arm round Rose and drew her in. It was a white empty room,
smelling of the roses outside, and waiting in the evening stillness for
the life that was to be. Rose looked at it all--at the piles of tiny
garments, the cradle, the pictures from Retsch's 'Song of the Bell,'
which had been the companions of their own childhood, on the walls--and
something stirred in the girl's breast.

'Catherine, I believe you have everything you want, or you soon will
have!' she cried, almost with a kind of bitterness, laying her hands on
her sister's shoulders.

'Everything but worthiness!' said Catherine softly, a mist rising in her
calm gray eyes. 'And you, 'Roeschen,' she added wistfully--'have you been
getting a little more what you want?'

'What's the good of asking?' said the girl, with a little shrug of
impatience. 'As if creatures like we ever got what they want! London has
been good fun certainly--if one could get enough, of it. Catherine, how
long is that marvelous person going to stay?' and she pointed in the
direction of Langham's room.

'A week,' said Catherine, smiling at the girl's disdainful tone. 'I was
afraid you didn't take to him.'

'I never saw such a being before,' declared Rose--'never! I thought I
should never get a plain answer from him about anything. He wasn't even
quite certain it was a fine day! I wonder if you set fire to him whether
he would be sure it hurt! A week, you say? Heigho! what an age!'

'Be kind to him,' said Catherine, discreetly veiling her own feelings,
and caressing the curly golden head as they moved toward the door. 'He's
a poor lone don, and he was so good to Robert!'

'Excellent reason for you, Mrs. Elsmere,' said Rose pouting; 'but----'

Her further remarks were cut short by the sound of the front-door bell.

'Oh, I had forgotten Mr. Newcome!' cried Catherine, starting. 'Come down
soon, Rose, and help us through.'

'Who is he?' inquired Rose, sharply.

'A High Church clergyman near here, whom Robert asked to tea this
afternoon,' said Catherine, escaping.

Rose took her hat off very leisurely. The prospect down-stairs did not
seem to justify despatch. She lingered and thought, of 'Lohengrin'
and Albani, of the crowd of artistic friends that had escorted her to
Waterloo, of the way in which she had been applaud