ou, Rose?" she inquired; "are you ill? What is
it?"

"Nothing," Rose answered, "only I don't feel like talking."

And not feeling like it, nobody could make her talk. She retired
early--to live over again in dreams the events of that day, and to think
of the blissful morrow.

An hour after breakfast next morning, Eeny met her going out, dressed
for her ride, and with a little velvet reticule stuffed full, slung over
her arm.

"What have you got in that bag?" asked Eeny, "your dinner? Are you going
to a picnic?"

Rose laughed at the idea of a January picnic, and ran off without
answering. An hour's brisk gallop brought her to the farm house, and old
Jacques came out, bowing and grinning, to take charge of her horse.

"Monsieur was in the parlour--would Mademoiselle walk right into the
parlour? Dr. Pillule had been there and seen to Monsieur's ankle.
Monsieur was doing very well, only not able to stand up yet."

Rose found Monsieur half asleep before the fire, and looking as handsome
as ever in his slumber. He started up at her entrance, holding out both
hands.

"_Mon ange!_ I thought you were never coming. I was falling into
despair."

"Falling into despair means falling asleep, I presume. Don't let me
disturb your dreams."

"I am in a more blissful dream now than any I could dream asleep. Here
is a seat. Oh, don't sit so far off. Are those the books? How can I ever
thank you?"

"You never can--so don't try. Here is Tennyson--of course you like
Tennyson; here is Shelley--here are two new and charming novels. Do you
read novels?"

"I will read everything you fetch me. By-the-by, it is very fatiguing to
read lying down; won't you read to me?"

"I can't read. I mean I can't read aloud."

"Let me be the judge of that. Let me see--read 'Maud.'"

Rose began and did her best, and read until she was tired. Mr.
Reinecourt watched her all the while as she sat beside him.

And presently they drifted off into delicious talk of poetry and
romance; and Rose, pulling out her watch, was horrified to find that it
was two o'clock.

"I must go!" she cried, springing up; "what will they think has become
of me?"

"But you will come again to-morrow?" pleaded Mr. Reinecourt.

"I don't know--you don't deserve it, keeping me here until this hour.
Perhaps I may, though--good-bye."

Rose, saying this, knew in her heart she could not stay away if she
tried. Next morning she was there, and the next, and the next, and the