It was nearly ten o’clock when Pauline returned. Madame Verney had begged her so hard to stay and keep her company that she had not been able to refuse, she told Rose, with many caresses.

“I have been thinking of you all the time, you poor darling. But what could I do? FÉlicie—she begged me this evening to call her FÉlicie—was so bent on my staying. I am going to take you to see her tomorrow. I talked so much about my little English Rose. And what have you been doing with yourself? What a pity you did not go to the concert! It was glorious. We had delightful seats. I never enjoyed a concert so much before.”

“I have been to Woodcote,” Rose broke in. “It was such a lovely afternoon I could not stay indoors.”

Pauline looked dismayed. “To Woodcote?” she said sharply. “What a strange idea, Rose! I thought you were going into the Park. Was not Miss Merivale surprised to see you alone? I fancy she thinks we are like the Siamese Twins—always together.”

“I did not see Aunt Lucy. They had all gone to Guilford. I only saw Wilmot.”

“Wilmot? That’s the cook, isn’t it? I never can remember servants’ names. Well, did she condole with you about the concert, and think me a wretch for deserting you? I am afraid Miss Merivale will think so.”

“I didn’t say anything about the concert,” returned Rose. “She talked about Miss Sampson chiefly. She seems to think her perfect.”

“I daresay,” returned Pauline, with a yawn. “Those sort of people always hang together. She’s more of Wilmot’s class than ours, you know. I wonder what your aunt thinks of her.”

“Oh, Aunt Lucy thinks her perfect too,” returned Rose, no longer able to keep her jealousy out of her voice. “And so does Tom. I don’t believe they miss me one little bit, Pauline.”

“Did Wilmot tell you that?”

“No, but I am sure they don’t. Little things she said made me think so.”

“You silly child!” laughed Pauline. “Did you want your aunt to fret herself to death because you weren’t there to run her errands? You ought to be glad she finds Miss Sampson so useful. She may be willing to let you stay on with me all the summer. Wouldn’t that be delightful? Why, what a gloomy little face! Rose, I believe you are angry because I accepted FÉlicie’s invitation. But I am not going to leave you alone again. I must remember you are not like Clare. You are vexed with me, now confess it.”

“I see you could not help it,” Rose answered wearily. “And I was glad to go home. I shall go again on Saturday. You must come with me, Pauline.”

“Don’t tell your aunt that I wanted you to go to the concert alone, then,” said Pauline, with a laugh. “She is such a dear old-fashioned thing, she might be shocked at me. And I believe you were shocked, just a little. How Clare would have laughed at you!”

There was an expression of alarm in Pauline’s eyes as she watched Rose. She began to fear that she had really offended her by her behaviour. She had been so sure of her influence that she had not thought it necessary to consider her, but she told herself now that she had been distinctly foolish. And she tried her best to make Rose forget that she had been deserted for a new friend. But she could not chase away the shadow from Rose’s face. It was not her disappointment about the concert which had brought it there. It was the feeling that she was not being missed at home.

Next morning she was practising her scales in the sitting-room, after Pauline had gone to give some lessons, when Tom was ushered in by Mrs. Richards. Rose ran to meet him with a glad cry.

“Oh, Tom, this is nice! Has Aunt Lucy come with you?”

“No; she sent me. She wants you and Miss Smythe to spend Saturday to Monday with us. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming yesterday, Rosie? Aunt Lucy was so disappointed when she found you had come down.”

“I didn’t think of it till the middle of the day. You had gone to Guilford, they told me. Wasn’t that too far for Aunt Lucy?”

“Why should it be?” asked Tom in a surprised tone. “She has often driven as far as that. She seemed to enjoy it. She is certainly stronger, Rosie. But you will see on Saturday. You look rather pale. Come out with me. If you’ll ask me to lunch, I can stay.”

Rose hesitated. “I don’t think you would like Mrs. Richards’ cooking, Tom. I would rather you wouldn’t stay.”

“You inhospitable sister! Well, I’ll ask you to lunch with me. Run and put your hat on and let us go out. It is a glorious morning.”

He watched her rather impatiently as she got the case and began to put her violin away. He was anxious to get her out into the open air. It distressed him to see how pale she was. And he had an uneasy feeling that he had been neglecting his little sister lately. For days he had hardly thought of her.

“You aren’t practising too hard, I hope, Rosie?” he said kindly. “You mustn’t overdo it, you know.”

“Oh, I don’t practise too much,” Rose returned. She did not tell him that she found it impossible to practise except when Pauline was out. Pauline’s neuralgia came on directly she began to play. “And how does Miss Sampson suit, Tom? I hope she looks after Aunt Lucy properly?”

Tom flushed up. “You will see for yourself on Saturday, Rosie. Aunt Lucy is very fond of her.”

“Yes, Wilmot told me that.”

Tom gave his sister a hasty glance, was on the point of saying something, but checked himself. And there was a moment’s silence before he spoke. “I wish you had not settled to stay here till June, Rosie. We want you at home.”

It was in a choked voice Rose answered him. “I don’t believe you do want me. Aunt Lucy has got Miss Sampson. She doesn’t want me.”

Tom again paused a moment before he spoke. Each time Rose mentioned Rhoda in that slighting tone it roused his anger against her. But he told himself that Rose did not know Rhoda yet, and he must wait till they had seen something of each other before he could expect Rose’s sympathy. He spoke very calmly and reasonably after the pause.

“Did you wish Aunt Lucy to be miserable while you were away, Rose? It was your own wish to go. Surely you ought to be glad that she has found someone to fill your place.”

He felt he had said the wrong thing before Rose turned on him, her eyes flashing. “How could Miss Sampson, a stranger, fill my place? Tom, you are horrid!”

“Not at all,” he said stoutly, bent on defending the position he had taken up. “I don’t want to hurt you, Rosie; but look at the thing reasonably. Remember that you told me you were bored to death at home, that you would give anything to live in London all the year round. I didn’t believe you. But suppose you had really wanted it? You couldn’t have expected to keep your place at home and yet have the freedom of a life like this. If a girl gives up her home duties, she must take the consequences.”

“I have only been away a fortnight,” said Rose, with a trembling lip, “and I shall feel nothing but a visitor when I go back on Saturday. You—you only ask me because I went home yesterday and found you gone. I don’t believe you want me a bit.” And, to Tom’s distress and amazement, Rose, poor little homesick Rose, burst into tears.

“I wish you would go back with me this minute and you’d find out whether we wanted you,” he exclaimed, drawing her hands down from her face. “You silly child, what would Aunt Lucy say if she heard you talking such nonsense? Rosie, just listen to me a moment. I am going to tell you something I haven’t even told Aunt Lucy yet, though I believe she guesses. Don’t cry any more. Just listen to me.”

The quiver in Tom’s voice made Rose look wonderingly at him. It was very unlike him to show any emotion. His cool, matter-of-fact way of looking at things had often irritated her. But she saw now that he was deeply moved. And the reason of his agitation suddenly flashed upon her.

“Oh, Tom!” she faltered out.

“Rosie, you’ll try to like her?” he said eagerly. “I’m not sure—I’m sure of nothing, except that I shall never be happy again unless—Rosie, you will be nice to her? You don’t know her. There is nobody like her. You won’t be able to help liking her, I’m sure of that.”

Rose was still looking at him with wide-open, wondering eyes.

“But, Tom, is she—is she a lady?” she faltered.

He frowned. “She hasn’t sixteen quarterings on her shield, if you mean that. But you won’t ask the question again when you have seen her, Rose.”

Rose did not remind him that she had seen her. She was trying to recall her as she sat at the side table busy over her typewriting. Her jealousy of Rhoda had somehow vanished in the light of Tom’s wonderful confession. She was eager to see the girl again who might one day be her sister.

“Do you really think Aunt Lucy knows, Tom?” she asked in a doubtful voice. Tom’s future wife had been often a subject for conversation between Miss Merivale and Rose. And of the two, Miss Merivale had been the more ambitious in her wishes. She had seemed to think that hardly anyone could be good enough for Tom.

“I’m sure she knows,” returned Tom, with conviction. “But don’t say anything to her, Rosie. I shouldn’t have told you unless”—

“I’m glad you told me, Tom,” said Rose, drawing a deep breath. “And I’m sure I shall like her. I’m sure she must be nice.”

Tom beamed at her. “But you did see her for a moment, Rosie. She came here while you were staying with Miss Smythe last month.”

“Yes; she sat at that table, and wrote the letters,” Rose said, nodding towards the little side table in the corner. “She had a brown dress on, I remember. Tom, am I expected to say that I thought her very pretty? I hardly looked at her.”

“Well, you will see her on Saturday,” Tom said.

Rose noticed that his voice sounded quite different when he spoke of Rhoda. And there came a look into his face she had never seen there before. It was impossible for her to cherish any jealous feelings in face of the great fact that Tom was in love. It thrilled her to think of it.

That evening, when Tom was gone, and she and Pauline were sitting together in their little sitting-room, she let her book lie unheeded on her lap, while she looked forward dreamily into the future. She took it for granted that Tom and Rhoda would marry. It seemed quite out of the question that Tom could be refused. How strange it would be to have a sister! She had so often wished for a sister. She hoped Rhoda would soon learn to love her. She thought of her quite naturally as Rhoda now, and was tremulously eager to see her again. She was sure that the girl Tom loved must be worthy of his love. And the fact that he had made her his confidante had taken all bitterness out of her heart. She was proud that he had trusted her.

“Rosie, whatever is your little head full of?” asked Pauline suddenly. She had been watching her for some moments, unable to interpret the shining, far-off look in her blue eyes.

Rose pave a start and looked hastily round. “I was thinking of Tom,” she said, feeling her colour rise.

“Tom ought to be flattered,” laughed Pauline. “I believe you had forgotten my existence. How you started when I spoke! Where were you? At Woodcote?”

“I fancy so,” said Rose, getting up and stretching her hands above her head. “Shall we have supper now, Pauline? I wonder why that lamp smells so. Ours never do at home. I must ask Wilmot how to clean it. I am sure Mrs. Richards can’t do it properly.”

“I don’t suppose she does, my dear. I believe Sampson tried to teach her. She’s a domestic genius, isn’t she? I am beginning to feel grateful to Sampson. If your aunt had not heard of her you wouldn’t have come to me.”

“Pauline, I wish you would not speak of her like that,” said Rose, with a note of irritation in her voice. “Why do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It isn’t as if she was a lady. One of her uncles is a butcher; she told Clare so.”

“I don’t see why she should be ashamed of it,” returned Rose, answering Pauline’s tone rather than her words. “It’s what people are in themselves that matters, not what trade their relations belong to. But Miss Sampson has no relations of her very own. The M’Alisters adopted her. And Aunt Lucy thinks that her uncle might have been Cousin Lydia’s husband. It is that which made Aunt Lucy so interested in her at first. For, you know, if Cousin Lydia’s little girl had lived, she would have had Woodcote, and not Tom. And she and her father would have come to England when Uncle James died.”

Pauline was watching Rose’s face curiously. She did not feel any interest in Cousin Lydia and her husband, but she could not understand Rose’s change of attitude towards Rhoda Sampson. One explanation occurred to her—a delightful one. Had Rose made up her mind to spend the summer in London with her? Was this the reason she felt glad that her aunt had someone she liked to take her place?

“Well, as I said before, Rosie, I am grateful to Miss Rhoda Sampson,” she said laughingly. “If she was not at Woodcote, you would not be here. And I shall get more and more grateful to her as the weeks go on. I may get to love her in time, if she enables us to spend the summer together. You are quite happy about your aunt now, aren’t you, my Rose?”

Rose looked aghast at the prospect of spending the whole summer in the flat. She hardly knew how she was to endure it till June.

“I must go home in June, Pauline,” she said hastily. “I couldn’t stay longer than that.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Pauline gaily. “You won’t talk so lightly about going back when you have had a few more weeks of freedom, Rose. And if your aunt is so well provided for, there will be no need for you to go back. You won’t be wanted.”

“Oh yes, I shall be,” Rose answered, with a swelling heart. Tom had made her feel sure of that. “Pauline, please don’t think about my staying here after June. I can’t stay. I want to go home.”

“You haven’t forgiven me for that wretched concert!” Pauline exclaimed.

“I haven’t thought of it again. It isn’t that, Pauline. How could it be? But I want to go home.”

“You will be miserable, just as you were before. Remember how you talked to me. You were bored to death.”

Rose flushed scarlet. “I wasn’t. Or if I was, I don’t mean to be so silly again.”

Pauline looked at her with an angry glance. “You are a homesick baby, Rose, that is the long and short of it. I gave you credit for being grown-up. It was a mistake you coming here at all. Clare didn’t get homesick.”

“Clare had her work,” answered Rose, knitting her pretty brows and looking miserably at Pauline’s angry face. “I am doing nothing I couldn’t do as well at home. I could come up once a week for lessons. Pauline, don’t be angry. You didn’t really think I should stay on after June, did you?”

“I gave you credit for meaning what you said,” returned Pauline harshly. “And what you said was true. You were not happy at home. If you go back, you will get bored and unhappy again.”

Rose shook her head. She had had a sharp lesson. She knew what the freedom was worth that Pauline had offered her. She longed to take up again the little daily cares that had filled her life at home. And she longed to get away from Pauline. She was beginning to feel that she had never really known her till now.

Pauline waited a moment for her to speak, and then turned sharply away. “Well, I shall not press you to stay with me. Madame Verney would be glad if I could live with her. I said it was impossible yesterday, as I was bound to you. Now I shall feel quite free to make my own arrangements. But you have disappointed me, Rose. I must tell you so quite frankly.”

And Rose felt quite crushed for the moment by the judicial air with which Pauline pronounced this judgment on her.