next. Then came a week of wild, snowy weather, when the roads were
heaped high, going out was an impossibility, and she had to stay at
home. Rose chafed desperately under the restraint, and grew so irritable
that it was quite a risk to speak to her. All her old high spirits were
gone. Her ceaseless flow of talk suddenly checked. She wandered about
the house aimlessly, purposelessly, listlessly, sighing wearily, and
watching the flying snow and hopeless sky. A week of this weather, and
January was at its close before a change for the better came. Rose was
falling a prey to green and yellow melancholy, and perplexing the whole
household by the unaccountable alteration in her. With the first gleam
of fine weather she was off. Her long morning rides were recommenced;
smiles and roses returned to her face, and Rose was herself again.

It took that sprained ankle a very long time to get well. Three weeks
had passed since that January day when Regina had slipped on the ice,
and still Mr. Reinecourt was disabled; at least he was when Rose was
there. He had dropped the Miss Danton and taken to calling her Rose, of
late; but when she was gone, it was really surprising how well he could
walk, and without the aid of a stick. Old Jacques grinned knowingly. The
poetry reading and the long, long talks went on every day, and Rose's
heart was hopelessly and forever gone. She knew nothing more of Mr.
Reinecourt than that he was Mr. Reinecourt; still, she hardly cared to
know. She was in love, and an idiot; to-day sufficed for her--to-morrow
might take care of itself.

"Rose, _cherie_," Mr. Reinecourt said to her one day, "you vindicate
your sex; you are free from the vice of curiosity. You ask no questions,
and, except my name, you know nothing of me."

"Well, Mr. Reinecourt, whose fault is that?"

"Do you want to know?"

Rose looked at him, then away. Somehow of late she had grown strangely
shy.

"If you like to tell me."

"My humble little Rose! Yes, I will tell you. I must leave here soon; a
sprained ankle won't last forever, do our best."

She looked at him in sudden alarm, her bright bloom fading out. He had
taken one of her little hands, and her fingers closed involuntarily over
his.

"Going away!" she repeated. "Going away!"

He smiled slightly. His masculine vanity was gratified by the
irrepressible confession of her love for him.

"Not from you, my dear little Rose. To-morrow you will know all--where I
am going, a