"I always enjoy your delightful music, my dear. It makes the house

more lively."

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Sutton. I should take pleasure in obliging

you; but if Mabel is out of sorts, I don't believe she will care to

have the house lively to-night," was the amiable rejoinder.

"Moreover, I am dying to finish 'David Copperfield.' Will you allow

me to curl myself up in the big chair here, and read for an hour?"

Mrs. Sutton gave a consent that was almost glad in its alacrity, and

pretended to occupy herself with the newspapers brought by the

evening mail, until she judged that Mabel had had season in which to

compose her thoughts. Then she muttered something about "breakfast,"

"muffins," and "Daphne," caught up her key-basket, and bustled out.

Rosa's book fell from before her face at the sound of the closing

door. The liquid eyes were turbid; her features moved by some

passion mightier far than curiosity or compassion for her friend's

distress.

"I have done nothing--literally nothing, to bring this on!" was the

reflection which brought most calm to her agitated mind. "If it

should be as I think, I am guiltless of treachery. My skirts are

clear. My hands are clean! Yet there have been moments when I could

have dipped them in blood that this end might be attained!"

Too restless to remain quiet, she tossed her book aside and wandered

from side to side of the room, halting frequently to hearken for

Mrs. Sutton's return, or some noise from the conference chamber that

might alleviate her suspense.

"I tried to put her on her guard," she broke forth at length, bent,

it would seem, upon self-justification against an invisible accuser.

"I saw aversion in Winston's eye the day he came home to find the

other here. He would never forgive his slave the presumption of

choosing a husband for herself. Did I not tell her so? Yet this has

caught her like a rabbit in a trap--unprepared for endurance or

resistance. The spiritless baby! Would I give him up, except with

life, if he loved me as he does her?"

It was not a baby's face that was confronting Mrs. Sutton's just

then. It was no weak, spiritless slave who sustained the pelting

shower of her comments, her wonderment and her entreaties that Mabel

would refuse to abide by her brother's decision--her guardian though

he was--and if she would not write to Frederic with her own hand,

empower her aunt to apply to him for an explanation of the

disgraceful mystery.




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