she was once more Rose, an individual creature, feeling the blood run in her veins, and the light lighten upon her, and the world spread open before her. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free-- I suppose this was how she felt. She had got back that consciousness which is sometimes bitter and sometimes sad, but without which we cannot live--the consciousness that she was no shadow in the world, but herself; no reflection of another’s will and feelings, but possessor of her own. When her mother and she were left alone, Rose got up from where she was sitting and drew a low chair, which belonged to one of the children, to her mother’s knee. Mrs. Damerel, too, had watched Agatha’s lingering exit with some signs of impatience, as if she, too, had something to say; but Rose had not noticed this, any more than her mother had noticed the new impulse which was visible in her child. The girl was so full of it that she began to speak instantly, without waiting for any question. “Mamma,” she said, softly, “I have not been a good daughter to you; I have left you to take all the trouble, and I have not tried to be of use. I want to tell you that I have found it out, and that I will try with all my heart to be different from to-day.” “Rose, my dear child!”--Mrs. Damerel was surprised and troubled. The tears, which rose so easily now, came with a sudden rush to her eyes. She put her arms around the girl, and drew her close, and kissed her. “I have never found fault with you, my darling,” she said. “No, mamma; and that makes me feel it more. But it shall be different; I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell you; but it shall be different from to-day.” “But, Rose, what has put this into your head to-day?” A wavering blush came and went upon Rose’s face. She had it almost in her heart to tell her mother; but yet there was nothing to tell, and what could she say? “I--can’t tell, mamma. It is mild and like spring. I think it was being out, and hearing people speak--kindly”-- Here Rose paused, and, in her turn, let fall a few soft tears. She had gone out very little, scarcely stirring beyond the garden, since her father’s death, and Mrs. Damerel thought it was the mere impulse of reviving life; unless indeed-- “My dear, did Mr. Incledon say anything to you!” she asked, with a vague hope. “Mr. Incledon? Oh, no! except to ask me if you would see him--on business. What was his business?” said innocent Rose, looking up into her mother’s face. “Rose,” said Mrs. Damerel, “I was just about to speak to you on a very important matter when you began. My dear, I must tell you at once what Mr. Incledon’s business was. It was about you.”