‘You will wake up some day, my beauty!’ Oh no, no; let her sleep on if this placid contented existence were indeed sleep; let her dream away the days in peace, until that time of awakening which would re-unite her to Elias. CHAPTER IX Then, proud Celinda, hope no more To be implor’d or woo’d; Since by thy scorn thou dost restore The wealth my love bestow’d; And thy disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind. THOMAS STANLEY. WHEN the artist had gone away, after lingering some days longer to complete his studies for the projected picture, the tenor of Rosalie’s existence flowed on as calmly as even she could desire. She made and sold her butter; had her cheeses conveyed to Mr. Hardy’s establishment in Branston; superintended the harvesting of her potatoes and mangels; laid in her winter store of oil-cake; and fattened sundry turkeys and geese for the Christmas market. Early on a winter’s afternoon Rosalie Fiander might have been seen walking slowly across the downs in the neighbourhood of Isaac Sharpe’s farm. She carried a large basket, and every now and then paused to add to the store of scarlet berries or shining evergreen which she was culling from thicket and hedgerow for Christmas decoration. All at once she was surprised by hearing a step on the path behind her and a man’s voice calling her name, and, turning, descried the tall and somewhat ungainly person of Andrew Burge. Though it wanted yet a few days of Christmas, that gentleman, who was of a social turn of mind, had evidently begun to celebrate the festival, and Rosalie, gazing at him, was somewhat dismayed on perceiving the flushed hilarity of his countenance and the devious gait by which he approached. She paused reluctantly, however, and shook hands with him when he came up. ‘I’ve been calling at your place, Mrs. Fiander,’ he observed, ‘to wish you the compliments of the season.’ ‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said Rosalie. ‘The same to you, Mr. Burge.’ ‘Ah!’ said the young man, rolling an amorous eye at her, ‘I was most wishful, Mrs. Fiander, to give you my Christmas greetings in person.’ ‘You are very good,’ said she. ‘I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. And now I think I must be moving home, for I am very busy to-day.’ ‘Allow me to escort you,’ urged Andrew. ‘’T was a disapp’intment to me not to find you at home. I am rej’iced to have overtaken you, and anxious to prorogue the interview. There’s a season for condoliances and a season for congratulations. This here is the time for congratulations, and I am anxious, Mrs. Fiander, ma’am, to prorogue it.’ ‘My work is waiting for me at home,’ said the young widow in alarm. ‘I am afraid I shall have no time to attend to you; but, perhaps, some other day—’ She broke off and began to walk away rapidly; but the uneven, lumbering steps kept pace with hers.