and threw himself down among the
pillows of the lounge. Those very pillows whereon his handsome head
rested had been soaked in Rose's tears, shed for his sweet sake--but how
was he to know that? It was such a cozy little nook, so still and dusky,
and shut in, that Mr. Stanford, whose troubles did not prey on him very
profoundly, closed his dark eyes, and went asleep in five minutes.

And sleeping, Rose found him. Going to her room to read, she remembered
she had left her book on the sofa in the recess, and ran down stairs
again to get it. Entering the little room from the hall, she beheld Mr.
Stanford asleep, his head on his arm, his handsome face as perfect as
something carved in marble, in its deep repose.

Rose stood still--any one might have stood and looked, and admired that
picture, but not as she admired. Rose was in love with him--hopelessly,
you know, therefore the more deeply. All the love that pride had tried,
and tried in vain, to crush, rose in desperation stronger than ever
within her. If he had not been her sister's betrothed, who could say
what might not have been? If that sister was one degree less beautiful
and accomplished, who could say what still might be? She had been such a
spoiled child all her life, getting whatever she wanted for the asking,
that it was very hard she should be refused now the highest boon she had
ever craved--Mr. Reginald Stanford.

Did some mesmeric rapport tell him in his sleep she was there? Perhaps
so, for without noise, or cause, his eyes opened and fixed on Rose's
flushed and troubled face. She started away with a confused exclamation,
but Stanford, stretching out his arm, caught and held her fast.

"Don't run away, Rose," he said, "How long have you been here? How long
have I been asleep?"

"I don't know," said Rose, confusedly: "I came here for a book a moment
ago only. Let me go, Mr. Stanford."

"Let you go? Surely not. Come, sit down here beside me, Rose. I have
fifty things to say to you."

"You have nothing to say to me--nothing I wish to hear. Please let me
go."

"On your dignity again, Rose?" he said, smiling, and mesmerizing her
with his dark eyes; "when will you have done wearing your mask?"

"My mask!" Rose echoed, flushing; "what do you mean, Mr. Stanford?"

"Treating me like this! You don't want to leave me now, do you? You
don't hate me as much as you pretend. You act very well, my pretty
little Rose; but you don't mean it--you know you don't!"