Her busy fingers began to flag as she filled up these “holes;” and now and then, the work dropped on her knee. The ordinary apprehensions about Harry, which generally formed the central object of her thoughts, were pleasantly hushed to-night. Rose was not thinking about anything particular--she would have said so, at least--but for all that, long trains of indefinite fancies were flitting through her mind, and her thick blunt needle was altogether stayed now and then--only recovering in hysteric bursts its ordinary movements, when Rose trembled to fancy that she heard a step on the stair. If Agnes would only come in--if Harry and Martha were but home again! At last a step was on the stair in reality. “Maybe it is Agnes,” said Rose to herself as her needle began to fly again through the muslin--but it was not only Agnes--it was the foot of a man--poor Rose wondered if by any possibility she could run away. And there he was, this sad ogre whom Rose feared, quietly opening the parlour door, as if he had some right to be there. Mr. Charteris was almost as shy as Rose herself. He sat down with pleased embarrassment, and looked exceedingly awkward, and spoke by no means so sensibly as he was used to do. Rose eagerly explained the reason why she was alone, and went to the window in haste to look for Agnes. Mr. Charteris’ eye had been caught by something of a very faded neutral hue, in a black frame, which hung above the mantelpiece. He asked Miss Rose if it was embroidery. Miss Rose was moved to laughter, and her laugh dispersed the mist of shyness very pleasantly. “It is only an old sampler of my grandmother’s, Mr. Charteris.” Mr. Charteris rose to look at it. “There is not much art in it,” said Rose, “it seems that all the landscapes on samplers are of one style--but my mother gave it to me when I was a girl--a little girl--and I used to be proud of it, because it was my own.” Mr. Charteris took it down to examine its beauties more closely. It bore the name of the artist at full length “Rose Allenders,” and had a square house, and some very original trees, like the trees of very old paintings, elaborately worked upon it. “I think you said she had been long dead,” said Cuthbert. “Long ago--very long ago,” said Rose. “When my mother was only a child, my grandmother died. Her name is on the stone, among the rest of the Calders, and her father and her little sister are near her, in the churchyard. Uncle Sandy used to take us there when we were children. I believe he thought they would feel lonely in their very graves, because they lay among strangers.” There was a pause. Cuthbert again hung up the faded sampler, and Rose worked most industriously at her opening. Each was earnestly endeavouring to invent something to say--and both of them were singularly unsuccessful. It was the greatest possible relief to Rose to hear Harry’s voice in the passage.