there was silence in the room; and though the elders did not care very much for it, I think the sharp disappointment of these two--a pang, perhaps, more keen and delicate than anything we can feel when the first freshness of youth is over--made itself spiritually felt somehow in the atmosphere of the place. “Roses have nothing to do out of the rose garden,” said Mr. Damerel, with an attempt to overcome his own fretfulness, and perhaps a compunction over the suffering he caused. He was not in a humor for talking, and when this was the case he seldom gave himself the trouble to talk; but some covert feeling or other made him willing to attempt a diversion, for the moment at least. “I wish people had a more general conception of the fitness of things. Your namesakes out-of-doors take no pleasure in the storm. Poor roses, how it will batter and beat them down, and strew their poor helpless petals about!” “I do not find fault with Rose for being timid,” said her mother; “but your craze about her name is fantastic, Herbert. She will have a good many storms to brave which she cannot escape from if she is to do her duty in life.” “Then I hope she will not do her duty,” said the rector; “don’t, my Rose in June. I had rather see you sweet and fresh, with your rose heart unruffled, than draggled and battered with the rain. I’ll take the moral risk upon my own head.” Mrs. Damerel uttered an impatient little exclamation under her breath. She turned to Wodehouse with an arbitrary and sudden change of the subject. “Do you expect to be long away?” she said. “Two years at the very least,” said the young man, piteously, looking at her with such imploring eyes that she felt his look, though her own eyes were fixed upon her work, and neither could nor would see. She felt it; and as she was but a woman, though stern in purpose, she winced a little and was sorry for him, though she would not help him. Her voice softened as she replied,-- “I am very sorry for your poor mother. How she will miss you! We must do our best to keep her cheerful while you are away.” “The storm is going off,” said the rector; “did you ever remark, Wodehouse, how seldom we have a complete thunderstorm to ourselves here? There have been three going on to-night: one towards London, one northwards, the other east. We never have more than the tail of a storm, which is somewhat humbling when you come to think of it. I suppose it has something to do with the _lie_ of the ground as you call it--eh?”