“Oh, not a little bit,” cried Rose, “a great, very great trouble!” She was so full of it that she could not talk of anything else. And the feeling in her mind was that she must speak or die. She began to tell her story in the woody arbor with the gay noise of the children close at hand, but hearing a cry among them that Mr. Incledon was coming, started up and tied on her hat, and seizing Mr. Nolan’s arm, dragged him out by the garden door. “I cannot see him to-day!” she cried, and led the curate away, dragging him after her to a quiet by-way over the fields in which she thought they would be safe. Rose had no doubt whatever of the full sympathy of this old friend. She was not afraid even of his disapproval. It seemed certain to her that he must pity at least if not help. And to Rose, in her youthful confidence in others, there was nothing in this world which was unalterable of its nature: no trouble, except death, which could not be got rid of by the intervention of friends. It chilled her a little, however, as she went on, to see the curate’s face grow longer and longer, graver and graver. “You should not have done it,” he said, shaking his head, when Rose told him how she had been brought to give her consent. “I know I ought not to have done it, but it was not my doing. How could I help myself? And now, oh, now, dear Mr. Nolan, tell me what to do! Will _you_ speak to mamma? Though she will not listen to me she might hear you.” “But I don’t see what your mamma has to do with it,” said the curate. “It is not to her you are engaged--nor is it she who has given her word; you must keep your word, we are all bound to do that.” “But a great many people don’t do it,” said Rose, driven to the worst of arguments by sheer despair of her cause. “_You_ must,” said Mr. Nolan: “the people who don’t are not people to be followed. You have bound yourself and you must stand by it. He is a good man and you must make the best of it. To a great many it would not seem hard at all. You have accepted him, and you must stand by him. I do not see what else can be done now.” “Oh, Mr. Nolan, you speak as if I were married, and there was no hope.” “It is very much the same thing,” said the curate; “you have given your word. Rose, you would not like to be a jilt; you must either keep your word or be called a jilt--and called truly. It is not a pleasant character to have.” “But it would not be true!” “I think it would be true. Mr. Incledon, poor man, would have good reason to think so. Let us look at it seriously, Rose. What is there so very bad in it that you should do a good man such an injury? He is not old. He is very agreeable and very rich. He would make you a great lady, Rose.” “Mr. Nolan, do you think I care for that?”