“Angry!” and in the eyes which looked at Rossie there was anything but anger. “I am not angry except with myself; only I am so mortified, so ashamed. I think you the dearest, most unselfish person in the world. Who else would have done what you have?” “Oh, ever so many,” Rossie said, “if they were sorry for you and loved you; for, Mr. Everard, I am so sorry, and I love you a heap, and then,—and then, I did it some because I thought your mother would like it if she knew.” Rosamond’s lip quivered as she said this, and there was such a pitiful look in her soft eyes that Everard raised himself in bed, and drawing her toward him, took the thin little face between his hands and kissed it tenderly, while his tears flowed afresh at the mention of his dead mother, who had been so much to him. “Rossie,” he said, “what can I ever do to show you how much I appreciate all you have done for, and all you are to me?” The girl hesitated a moment, and then said: “If you will promise never to have anything to do with Joe Fleming, I shall be so happy, for I am sure he is a bad man, and leads you into mischief. Will you promise not to go near Joe Fleming again?” Everard groaned as he answered her: “You do not know what you ask. I cannot break with Joe Fleming. I,—oh, Rossie, I am a coward, a fool, and I wish I were dead,—I do, upon my word! But there is one thing I can promise you, and I will. I pledge myself solemnly, from this day forth, never to touch a card of any kind in the way of gambling, never to touch a drop of spirits, or a cigar, or a fast horse, or to bet, or do anything of which you would not approve.” “I am so glad,” Rossie said, “and to make it quite sure, suppose you sign something just as they do the pledge to keep from drinking.” He did not quite know what she meant, but he answered, unhesitatingly: “I’ll sign anything you choose to bring me.” “I’m going to write it now,” Rossie said, and the next moment she left the room, and Everard was free to finish his letters alone. Taking the second one from Josephine, he read that she was sorry to hear of his affliction, and wished she could comfort him, and that it must be a consolation for him to know that his mother was in heaven, where he would one day meet her if he was a good man. This attempt at piety disgusted Everard, who knew how little Josephine cared for anything sacred, and how prone she was to ridicule what she called pious people. Immediately following this mention of his mother, she said she was missing and longing for him so much, and hoped he would write at once, and send her the money for which she was obliged to ask him. Then she added the following: