He knew how she would look,—not scornfully and angrily upon him,—but so sorry, so disappointed, and that would hurt him worse than her contempt. How fair and sweet she seemed to him, as he went over all the past as connected with her, remembering, first, the quaint, old-fashioned child he had teased so unmercifully, and of whom he had made a very slave; then the girl of fifteen, whose honest eyes had looked straight into his without a shadow of shame or consciousness, as she asked to be his wife; and, lastly, the Rossie of to-day, the Rossie of long dresses and pure womanhood, who was so dear to him that to have had her for his own for one short, blessed year he felt that he would give the rest of his life. But that could not be. She could never be his, even were he free from the hated tie, as he could be so easily. In her single-heartedness and truth she would never recognize as valid any separation save that which death might make, and this he dared not wish for, lest to his other sins that of murder should be added. He must tell her, and she would forgive him, even while she banished him from her presence; but after she knew it, whose opinion was worth more to him than that of the whole world, he could bear whatever else might come. But how could he tell her? Verbally? and so see the surprise, and disappointment, and pain which would succeed each other so rapidly in those clear, innocent eyes which faithfully mirrored what she felt. He knew there would be pain, for as he loved her so he felt that she cared or could care for him, if only it were right for her to do so, and selfish as he was, it hurt him cruelly that she must suffer through his fault. But it must be, and, at last, concluding that he never could sit face to face with her while he confessed his secret, he decided to write it out and send it to her, and then wait a few days before going to see the effect. He made this resolve just as the autumnal morning shone full into his room, and he heard across the common the bell from his boarding-house summoning him to breakfast. But he could not eat, and after a vain effort at swallowing a little coffee, he went back to his office, where, to his utter amazement and discomfiture, he found Rosamond herself seated in his chair and smiling brightly upon him as he came in. When he was with her the night before she had forgotten to speak to him of a certain matter of business which must be attended to that day, and immediately after breakfast, which was always early at the Forrest House, she had walked down to the office, and telling the boy in attendance that he need not wait until Mr. Forrest’s return, she sent him to his breakfast, and was there alone when Everard came in. “Oh, Rossie, Rossie,” he gasped, as if the sight of her unnerved him entirely, “why did you come here this morning?” She did not tell him why she came, for she forgot her errand entirely, in her alarm at his white, haggard face, and the strangeness of his manner.