'

And she too got up, drawing her hand lightly along the keyboard of the
piano. Her pose had a kind of defiance in it; her knit brows forbade
Catherine to ask questions. Catherine stood irresolute. Should she throw
herself on her sister, imploring her to speak, opening her own heart on
the subject of this wild, unhappy fancy for a man who would never think
again of the child he had played with?

But the North-country dread of words, of speech that only defines and
magnifies, prevailed. Let there be no words, but let her love and watch.

So, after a moment's pause, she began in a different tone upon the
inquiries she had been making, the arrangements that would be wanted for
this musical winter. Rose was almost listless at first. A stranger would
have thought she was being persuaded into something against her will.
But she could not keep it up. The natural instinct reasserted itself,
and she was soon planning and deciding as sharply, and with as much
young omniscience, as usual.

By the evening it was settled. Mrs. Leyburn, much bewildered, asked
Catherine doubtfully, the last thing at night, whether she wanted Rose
to be a professional. Catherine exclaimed.

'But, my dear,' said the widow, staring pensively into her bedroom fire,
'what's she to do with all this music?' Then after a second she added
half severely: 'I don't believe her father would have liked it; I don't,
indeed, Catherine!'

Poor Catherine smiled and sighed in the background, but made no reply.

'However, she never looks so pretty as when she's playing the violin;
never!' said Mrs. Leyburn presently in the distance, with a long breath
of satisfaction. 'She's got such a lovely hand and arm, Catherine!
They're prettier than mine, and even your father used to notice mine.'

'_Even_.' The word had a little sound of bitterness. In spite of all
his love, had the gentle puzzle-headed woman found her unearthly husband
often very hard to live with?

Rose meanwhile was sitting up in bed, with her hands round her knees,
dreaming. So she had got her heart's desire! There did not seem to be
much joy in the getting, but that was the way of things, one was
told. She knew she should hate the Germans--great, bouncing, over-fed,
sentimental creatures!

Then her thoughts ran into the future. After six months--yes, by
April--she would be home, and Agnes and her mother could meet her in
London.

_London_. Ah, it was London she was thinking of all the time, not