“Mr. Rockharrt usually returns at six o’clock.  We have dinner at half-past,” replied Cora.

“And this is two!  Four hours and a half yet!”

“The afternoon is very fine.  Will you take a walk with me in the garden?” inquired Cora, as they left the dining room, feeling some compunction for the persistent coldness with which she had treated her most gentle and obliging guest.

“Oh, thank you very much, dear.  With the greatest pleasure!  It will be just like old times, when we used to walk in the garden together, you a little child holding on to my hand.  And now—­But we won’t talk of that,” said Rose.

And she fled up stairs to get her hat and shawl.

And the two women sauntered for half an hour among the early roses and spring flowers in the beautiful Rockhold garden.

Then they came in and went to the library together and looked over the new magazines.  Presently Cora said: 

“We all use the library in common to write our letters in.  If you have letters to write, you will find every convenience in either of those side tables at the windows.”

“Yes.  Just as it used to be in the old times when I was so happy here!  When the dear old lady was here!  Ah, me!  But I will not think of that.  She is in heaven, as sure as there is a heaven for angels such as she, and we must not grieve for the sainted ones.  But I have no letters to write, dear.  I have no correspondents in all the world.  Indeed, dear Cora, I have no friend in the world outside of this house,” said Rose, with a little sigh that touched Cora’s heart, compelling her to sympathize with this lonely creature, even against her better judgment.

“Is not Mr. Fabian friendly toward you?” inquired Cora, from mixed motives—­of half pity, half irony.

“Fabian?” sweetly replied Rose.  “No, dear.  I lost the friendship of Mr. Fabian Rockharrt when I declined his offer of marriage.  You refuse a man, and so wound his vanity; and though you may never have given him the least encouragement to propose to you, and though he has not the shadow of a reason to believe that you will accept yet will he take great offense, and perhaps become your mortal enemy,” sighed Rose.

“But I think Uncle Fabian is too good natured for that sort of malice.”

“I don’t know, dear.  I have never seen him since he left me in anger on the day I begged off from marrying him.  Really, darling, it was more like begging off than refusing.”

But little more was said on the subject, and presently afterward the two went up stairs to dress for dinner.

Punctually at six o’clock Mr. Rockharrt returned.  And the evening passed as on the preceding day, with this addition to its attractions:  Mrs. Stillwater went to the piano and played and sang many of Mr. Rockharrt’s favorite songs—­the old fashioned songs of his youth—­Tom Moore’s Irish melodies, Robert Burns’ Scotch ballads, and a miscellaneous assortment of English ditties—­all of which were before Rose’s time, but which she had learned from old Mrs. Rockharrt’s ancient music books during her first residence at Rockhold, that she might please the Iron King by singing them.