er!" it said, with an unmistakable plainness; "now or
never!"

The Jacqueminot rose fell to the ground; Grover stooped to pick
it up. Had he only said: "May I keep this as a souvenir of our
friendship," or something of that sort, she would at once have
summoned courage to make her confession. But, instead of that, he
gravely handed her back the rose and remarked that he was under great
obligation to her father and mother for their kindness to him during
his stay in the city. She knew of no appropriate reply to this
observation until his silence forced her to invent one. "You have
given us no opportunity of late to be either kind or unkind to you,"
she said, with a blush, which made her feel hot all over.

"The circumstances are at fault, not I," he answered, and got up to
take his leave.

"Pardon me," she said, grasping his hand with a desperate clutch; "I
think I heard mother come in. I'll be back in one moment."

Several minutes elapsed, however, but neither Roeschen nor the Frau
Professorin appeared. Then a sudden sound of sobs was heard in the
next room, and Grover, fearing that some one was in distress, hastily
opened the door. There stood Miss Jones, grave and benign, stooping
over the weeping Roeschen, who was dramatically embracing her knees.

"Oh, it was I--it was I who made trouble between you," sobbed the
girl, flinging back her head and gazing imploringly up into Miss
Jones's face. "You are so good and noble, Louise, can you ever forgive
me? Oh, I wish you would kill me, so that I never could do you any
harm again."

"That won't be necessary, my dear," said Miss Jones, soothingly,
stroking the penitent's hair and kissing her forehead; then, catching
sight of Grover, she instantly recovered her dignity and disengaged
herself from Roeschen's embrace. The latter, with a wildly despairing
glance at the young man, sprang up and rushed out of the room.

Miss Jones and Grover stood face to face. The reverberation of
Roeschen's excitement seemed to linger in the room, and they waited for
it to pass away before speaking.

"I came to bid you good-bye," he said at last; it did not occur to him
that he had not come for that purpose.

"I am happy to have a chance to--to--beg your pardon," replied Miss
Jones, with a heroic determination to crucify her pride. "I was harsh
and unjust to you. Roeschen has told me all."

"I wish she would tell _me_ all. I am as much in the dark as ever."

"The girl to--to--whom