he had meant to be contrite and
faithful, praying nightly that poor Claude might live down his present
anguish, of which she had been the innocent cause.

Instead, what had happened? She had been put altogether in the wrong.
Stephen had almost cast her off, and that, too, without argument. He had
given her her liberty before she had asked for it, taking it for
granted, without question, that she desired to be rid of him. Instead of
comforting her in her remorse, or sympathizing with her for so nobly
refusing to shine in Claude's larger world of Boston, Stephen had
assumed that she was disloyal in every particular.

And pray how was she to cope with such a disagreeable and complicated
situation?

It would not be long before the gossips rolled under their tongues the
delicious morsel of a broken engagement, and sooner or later she must
brave the displeasure of her grandmother.

And the little house--that was worse than anything. Her tears flowed
faster as she thought of Stephen's joy in it, of his faithful labor, of
the savings he had invested in it. She hated and despised her self when
she thought of the house, and for the first time in her life she
realized the limitations of her nature, the poverty of her ideals.

What should she do? She had lost Stephen and ruined his life. Now, in
order that she need not blight a second career, must she contrive to
return Claude's love! To be sure, she thought, it seemed indecent to
marry any other man than Stephen, when they had built a house together,
and chosen wall-papers, and a kitchen stove, and dining-room chairs; but
was it not the only way to evade the difficulties?

Suppose that Stephen, in a fit of pique, should ask somebody else to
share the new cottage?

As this dreadful possibility came into view, Rose's sobs actually
frightened the birds and the squirrels. She paced back and forth under
the trees, wondering how she could have been engaged to a man for eight
months and know so little about him as she seemed to know about Stephen
Waterman to-day. Who would have believed he could be so autocratic, so
severe, so unapproachable! Who could have foreseen that she, Rose Wiley,
would ever be given up to another man,--handed over as coolly as if she
had been a bale of cotton? She wanted to return Claude Merrill's love
because it was the only way out of the tangle; but at the moment she
almost hated him for making so much trouble, for hurting Stephen, for
abasing her in h