"Fabian?" sweetly replied Rose. "No, dear. I lost the friendship of Mr. Fabian Rockharrt when I declined his offer of marriage. You refuse a man, and so wound his vanity; and though you may never have given him the least encouragement to propose to you, and though he has not the shadow of a reason to believe that you will accept yet will he take great offense, and perhaps become your mortal enemy," sighed Rose. "But I think Uncle Fabian is too good natured for that sort of malice." "I don't know, dear. I have never seen him since he left me in anger on the day I begged off from marrying him. Really, darling, it was more like begging off than refusing." But little more was said on the subject, and presently afterward the two went up stairs to dress for dinner. Punctually at six o'clock Mr. Rockharrt returned. And the evening passed as on the preceding day, with this addition to its attractions: Mrs. Stillwater went to the piano and played and sang many of Mr. Rockharrt's favorite songs--the old fashioned songs of his youth--Tom Moore's Irish melodies, Robert Burns' Scotch ballads, and a miscellaneous assortment of English ditties--all of which were before Rose's time, but which she had learned from old Mrs. Rockharrt's ancient music books during her first residence at Rockhold, that she might please the Iron King by singing them. Surely the siren left nothing untried to please her patron and benefactor. When he complained of fatigue and bade the two women good night, she started and lighted his wax candle and gave it to him. The next day she was on hand to help him on with his great coat, and to hand him his gloves and hat, and he thanked her with a smile. So went on life at Rockhold all the week. On Saturday evening Mr. Clarence came home with his father and greeted Rose Stillwater with the kindly courtesy that was habitual with him. There were four at the dinner table. And Rose, having so excellent a coadjutor in the younger Rockharrt, was even gayer and more chatty than ever, making the meal a lively and cheerful one even for moody Aaron Rockharrt and sorrowful Cora Rothsay. After dinner, when the party had gone into the drawing room, Mrs. Stillwater said: "Here are just four of us. Just enough for a game at whist. Shall we have a rubber, Mr. Rockharrt?" "Yes, my child! Certainly, with all my heart! I thank you for the suggestion! I have not had a game of whist since we left the city. Ah, my child, we have had very stupid evenings here at home until you came and brought some life into the house. Clarence, draw out the card table. Cora, go and find the cards." "Let me! Let me! Please let me!" exclaimed Rose, starting up with childish eagerness. "Where are the cards, Cora, dear?" "They are in the drawer of the card table. You need not stir to find them, thank you, Mrs. Stillwater." "No; here they are all ready," said Mr. Clarence, who had drawn the table up before the fire and taken the pack of cards from the drawer.