The guest was a young man who had arrived before the heads of the house left, and had been laughingly charged by them to see that the children did not work mischief.  He was an old friend of the family; at least as old a friend as he was a man, and she had been in the world a quarter of a century.  We shall call him Edwin:  that name will do as well as another; indeed, better, for he might not like his own made public.  It need hardly be said that among the rest young Edwin loved, and, like his namesake in the ballad, he never talked of love.  This might be stupid, but the stupidity which springs from true modesty is not to be classed with the stupidity which springs from want of brains, even when, as is quite likely, the consequences are to the full as disastrous.  Now, how is a young lady to understand or bring things to a bearing in a case like this?  The Rose could not go up to Edwin and tell him she was not a goddess; neither could she say, “Although I have five thousand pounds—­and you know it, and I know that you know it, and you know that I know that you know it—­I am quite ready to believe that you love me, and would love me if I hadn’t a farthing:”  she could not say this, but she thought it, she worried herself thinking over it, and, being a sensible girl with a humble opinion of herself, she came to the conclusion that she had been altogether mistaken—­that Edwin did not care for her, at least not as she cared for him, otherwise why should he not say so?  “If,” she thought—­“if I were in his place and he in mine, neither money nor pride, nor anything else, would keep me silent.”  And the roses in her face deepened in color as she thought of her own silly folly in allowing her feelings to be drawn in, and she determined her folly should cease from that hour; which determination had the effect of bringing sharp, short speeches about Edwin’s ears tinged with sarcasm that were meant to convey to him the conviction that she did not care a pin about him; and they answered the purpose admirably.

  Love is a fickle game, which they
  Whose stakes are deepest worst can play,

Edwin was at Cockhoolet that Christmas Day by the same fatality that causes a moth to hover round a brilliant light; and when her sister told Bessie that Edwin had come and was putting his horse into the stable, she said, “Is Mr. Forrester here again?  He must surely be dull at home.”  But of course she received him with friendly civility.

Edwin employed the forenoon out of doors with the boys and two other visitors.  A Mr. and Mrs. Parker arriving unexpectedly, who were anxious to see the castle, the afternoon was spent in going through every part of it from dungeon to roof.

Bessie carried the keys:  she was chatelaine, seneschal and cicerone, all rolled in one.