.

Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm,
and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. "I did think it
would about kill her if it went on," she whispered. "I think I was
mistaken."

"And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she
wasn't," said Horace.

"Yes, I did."

"I must say it did not have that appearance."

Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. "I wanted to do what
was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to be
selfish," she sobbed.

Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. "Oh Rose," he said,
"you are all alike, you women. When it comes to a question of right
or wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar of
sacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, dear. You want to do right so
much that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blinds
them. I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your
own truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay them
all at her feet--or, rather, at the feet of your conscience."

"I only wanted to do what was right," Rose sobbed again.

"I know you did, dear." Horace put his arm around Rose. He drew her
to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. He looked at her
almost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal.

"Don't laugh at me," she whispered.

Horace kissed her. "I am not laughing at you, but at the eternal
feminine, dear," he said. "There is something very funny about the
eternal feminine. It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurts
itself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it."

"I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so to me,
Horace. I only meant to do what was right."

"I won't talk so any more, darling."

"I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace."

"Of course not, sweetheart."

"I love you, anyway," Rose whispered, and put up her face to be
kissed again, "and I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to do my
duty."

"Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your duty is to
marry me, don't you?"

Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about that
laugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both started.
"She is talking to herself in there," whispered Rose. "Horace, what
do you suppose it is about? Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying
horribly about something. What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, darling