een placed at rest there before the
old tree, as a baby sapling, had raised its miniature head above the
ground.

They had advanced about a mile, when Mrs. Spenser stopped, she found
herself unable to go farther; she made her confession with curt speech
and extreme reluctance. They all looked at her and saw her fatigue; that
made her more curt still. But it could not be helped; she was flushed in
an even dark red hue all over her face from the edge of her hair to her
throat; she was breathing quickly; her hands shook. The heat had
affected her; she was always affected by the heat, and it was a warm
day; she had never been in the habit of walking far.

"You must not go another step, Rosalie," said Lucian, who had come back
to her; "the others can go on, and I will wait here with you. When you
are quite rested we will go slowly back to the shore; there will still
be time, I presume, for me to get in my sketch."

But Rosalie never could bear to give her husband trouble. "I will wait
here," she said, "but you need not. Please go with the others, as you
first intended; you will find me here on your way back."

"I shall stay with you," repeated Lucian.

She looked so tired that they all busied themselves in preparing a seat
for her; they made it of the light mantles which the ladies had been
carrying over their arms, spreading them on the ground under a large
tree where there was a circle of shade. Here she sat down, leaning
against the tree's trunk. "If you don't go on with the others, Lucian, I
shall be perfectly wretched," she said. "There's nothing in the world
the matter with me; you have seen me in this way before, and you know it
is nothing--I have only lost my breath."

"Yes, I know it's nothing," Lucian answered, kindly. "But I cannot leave
you here alone, Rosalie; don't ask it."

Mr. Moore, who had been standing with his hands patiently folded over
his butterfly pole, now had an inspiration; it was that he himself
should remain with "Cousin Rosalie." "I have no talent for sketching,"
he said, looking round upon them; "really none whatever, I assure you;
thus it will be no deprivation. And I _have_ observed some interesting
butterflies in this neighborhood, which I should like to obtain, if
possible."

"Why shouldn't we all desert Mr. Spenser?" said Margaret. "I have no
doubt his sketch will be much more picturesque than the reality. It's
very warm; I don't think any of us (those not inspired by artistic
in