“I told you Helen was ill.”

“A megrim—­a whim—­a”—­

“You do her wrong; she has been a mother, and her child is dead.”

“A blow to her ambition,” said Edward, so coldly that Rose (such is human nature) breathed more freely.  Was it possible, then—­could it be possible—­that his feelings had been excited not by the remembrance of Helen, but the thought of her own departure?  Yet still her simple sense of justice urged her to say, “Again you do her wrong; Helen has a great deal of feeling.”

“For herself,” he answered tersely, “I dare say she has.”

“I did not think you could be so unjust and ungenerous,” replied Rose; “but you are out of sorts to-night, and will be sorry before morning.  You were always hasty, Edward.  Good-night—­good-bye.”

“Good-bye, then, Rose—­good-bye;” and without taking her hand, without one kind word, one sign of love, Edward Lynne rushed through the garden gate and disappeared.

Rose entered the little parlour, which of late had been well cared for.  The old sofa, though as stiff and hard as ever, triumphed in green and yellow; and two cushions, with large yellow tassels, graced the ends, and a huge square ottoman, which every country visitor invariably tumbled over, stood exactly in front of the old seat.  Upon this Rose flung herself, and, covering her face with her hands, bent down her head upon the stately seat.  Her sobs were not loud but deep; and as she was dealing with feelings, and not with time, she had no idea how long she had remained in that state, until aroused by a voice, whose every tone sent the blood throbbing and tingling through her veins.

“Rose—­dear Rose!”

Blushing—­trembling—­ashamed of an emotion she had not the power to control—­Rose could not move, did not at all events, until Edward was on his knees beside her—­until he had poured forth his affection—­had assured her how completely she had possessed herself of his respect and admiration; that his feelings towards her not being of that passionate nature which distracted him with love for Helen, he had not truly felt her value until the idea of losing her for ever came upon him; that then he indeed felt as though all hope of happiness was to be taken away for ever—­felt that he should lose a friend, one on whose principles and truth he could rely—­felt that in her his all was concentrated.  It is only those who, having loved long and hopelessly for years, find that love returned, and at the very moment when they were completely bowed down by the weight of disappointment, can understand what Rose experienced.  She did not violate any of the laws of maiden modesty, because she was pure in heart and single of purpose; but she was too truthful to withhold the confession of her love, and too sincere to conceal her happiness.