“Rose, are you mad?” said her mother, drawing away her hand; “rise up, and do not let me think my child is a fool. Over! Is honor over, and the word you have pledged, and the engagement you have made?” “Honor!” said Rose, with white lips; “but it was for you I did it, and you do not require it any more.” “Rose,” cried Mrs. Damerel, “you will drive me distracted. I have often heard that women have no sense of honor, but I did not expect to see it proved in your person. Can you go and tell the man who loves you that you will not marry him because we are no longer beggars? He would have helped us when we were penniless--is that a reason for casting him off now?” Rose let her mother’s hand go, but she remained on her knees by the side of the chair, as if unable to move, looking up in Mrs. Damerel’s face with eyes twice their usual size. “Then am I to be none the better--none the better?” she cried piteously; “are they all to be saved, all rescued, except me?” “Get up, Rose,” said Mrs. Damerel impatiently, “and do not let me hear any more of this folly. Saved! from an excellent man who loves you a great deal better than you deserve--from a lot that a queen might envy--everything that is beautiful and pleasant and good! You are the most ungrateful girl alive, or you would not venture to speak so to me.” Rose did not make any answer. She did not rise, but kept still by her mother’s side, as if paralyzed. After a moment Mrs. Damerel, in angry impatience, turned from her and resumed her writing, and there the girl continued to kneel, making no movement, heart-stricken, turned into marble. At length, after an interval, she pulled timidly at her mother’s dress, looking at her with eyes so full of entreaty, that they forced Mrs. Damerel, against her will, to turn round and meet that pathetic gaze. “Mamma,” she said, under her breath, her voice having failed her, “just one word--is there no hope for me, can you do nothing for me? Oh, have a little pity! You could do something if you would but try.” “Are you mad, child?” cried the mother again--“do something for you? What can I do? You promised to marry him of your own will; you were not forced to do it. You told me you liked him not so long ago. How does this change the matter, except to make you more fit to be his wife? Are you mad?” “Perhaps,” said Rose softly; “if being very miserable is being mad, then I am mad, as you say.” “But you were not very miserable yesterday; you were cheerful enough.” “Oh, mamma, then there was no hope,” cried Rose, “I had to do it--there was no help; but now hope has come--and must every one share it, every one get deliverance, but me?”