She paused, exhausted by her emotion—she could not utter another syllable. Rosalie who had watched her with a fixed astonishment as she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she tried to say calmly, “Of course you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I should know it.” “It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you, Rosalie, you might doubt me now when I assure you, that an impediment which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I not been a mother to you always?” she asked appealingly, imploringly, “I love you as I love Duncan—and it cuts me to the heart to grieve you.” “Has Duncan given you an answer?” “Yes, Rosalie.” “And it?” “He has trusted to his mother,” she said, almost proudly. “Rather than me,” quickly interrupted Rosalie. “Rather than do that which is wrong; which might prove the misery of you both hereafter, my child.” “Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the thing is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it and not another’s.” “He could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Oh, Rosalie, do not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I shall always deplore having not foreseen the result of your companionship. Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the best for you always, so far as I knew how.” “Heaven knows that I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home again?” “Monday, not before.” * * * * * When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie’s room this letter was found.