winter,
at the mountains in the summer; a few concerts, some good works; they
looked for nothing new from her; she was "only Rosalie" to them. She had
every comfort, of course, every luxury; it never occurred to their minds
that she might like also a taste of the leading _role_ for a time, a
taste of life at first hand; families are very apt to make this mistake
regarding the left-over sisters and daughters whom they shelter so
carefully, perhaps, but also so monotonously, under their protecting
wing.

That summer Lucian was twenty-three; but, tall, handsome, and in one way
very mature, he had looked quite as old as he did now, five years later.
He was always sunny, always amusing; he had not been in the least afraid
of her, of her age, her moodiness, or her money, but had joked with her
and complimented her with an ease which had at first disconcerted her
almost painfully. He had noticed and criticised her reserve; he had
discovered and praised her one little talent, a contralto voice of
smallest possible compass, but some sweetness in a limited range of old
English songs; he had teased her to make him a pocket pin-cushion, and
then when her unaccustomed hands had painfully fashioned one (on her own
behalf she never touched a needle), he had made all manner of sport of
it and of her. He had helped her dry-shod over brooks (unexpectedly she
had a pretty foot), standing ankle-deep in water himself; he had gone
miles for some dark red roses, because one of them would "look so well"
(as it did) in her hair; he had laughed at her books, and made her feel,
though without the least approach to saying so, that she was ignorant;
made her realize, simply through her own quickened sense of comparison,
that she, Rosalie Bogardus, who belonged among the "best people," and
who had enjoyed what is vaguely but opulently summed up as "every
advantage," was yet an uncultivated and even a stupid sort of person, by
the side of a certain young idler, one who had no background whatever
(so her relatives would have said), no connections, no ambitions or
industry of the tangible sort, and no money; no appreciable baggage, in
short, with which to go through life, save a graceful little talent for
painting in water-colors, and the most delightful disposition in the
world. Her relatives would have added--an immense assurance. But Rosalie
did not call it that; to her it seemed courage--courage indomitable, was
the term in her mind.

She over-e