Rhoda’s unflickering determination to carry out, and to an end, this tragic struggle of duty against inclination; on her own sole responsibility forcing it on; acting like a Fate, in contempt of mere emotions,—­seemed barely real to his mind:  each moment that he conceived it vividly, he became more certain that she must break down.  Was it in her power to drag Dahlia to the steps of the altar?  And would not her heart melt when at last Dahlia did get her voice?  “This marriage can never take place!” he said, and was convinced of its being impossible.  He forgot that while he was wasting energy at Fairly, Rhoda had sat hiving bitter strength in the loneliness of the Farm; with one vile epithet clapping on her ears, and nothing but unavailing wounded love for her absent unhappy sister to make music of her pulses.

He found his way to Dahlia’s room; he put her Bible under his arm, and looked about him sadly.  Time stood at a few minutes past eleven.  Flinging himself into a chair, he thought of waiting in that place; but a crowd of undefinable sensations immediately beset him.  Seeing Edward Blancove in the street below, he threw up the window compassionately, and Edward, casting a glance to right and left, crossed the road.  Robert went down to him.

“I am waiting for my cousin.”  Edward had his watch in his hand.  “I think I am fast.  Can you tell me the time exactly?”

“Why, I’m rather slow,” said Robert, comparing time with his own watch.  “I make it four minutes past the hour.”

“I am at fourteen,” said Edward.  “I fancy I must be fast.”

“About ten minutes past, is the time, I think.”

“So much as that!”

“It may be a minute or so less.”

“I should like,” said Edward, “to ascertain positively.”

“There’s a clock down in the kitchen here, I suppose,” said Robert.  “Safer, there’s a clock at the church, just in sight from here.”

“Thank you; I will go and look at that.”

Robert bethought himself suddenly that Edward had better not.  “I can tell you the time to a second,” he said.  “It’s now twelve minutes past eleven.”

Edward held his watch balancing.  “Twelve,” he repeated; and, behind this mask of common-place dialogue, they watched one another—­warily, and still with pity, on Robert’s side.

“You can’t place any reliance on watches,” said Edward.

“None, I believe,” Robert remarked.

“If you could see the sun every day in this climate!” Edward looked up.

“Ah, the sun’s the best timepiece, when visible,” Robert acquiesced.  “Backwoodsmen in America don’t need watches.”

“Unless it is to astonish the Indians with them.”

“Ah! yes!” hummed Robert.

“Twelve—­fifteen—­it must be a quarter past.  Or, a three quarters to the next hour, as the Germans say.”

“Odd!” Robert ejaculated.  “Foreigners have the queerest ways in the world.  They mean no harm, but they make you laugh.”