Poor Rose! a hero and martyr to her own pride of womanliness, will never tell what this blight is--never, if it should kill her--and she thinks it will kill her, poor, simple heart! Since she heard “it”--and she never describes to herself more definitely what it was she heard--she has been in a maze, and never reasoned on it. She cannot reason on it--we so seldom _think_, after all, either in our joys or troubles--she only is aware of long trains of musings sweeping through her mind, like dreams, which place her in the strangest connection with Cuthbert and Cuthbert’s bride, and bring them continually in her way; and she always assumes a sad dignity in her fancies, and will do anything rather than have them believe that this moves her; and then she tries to think of Harry, and of the family cares and expectations, to rouse her from this stupor of her own; and getting sick with the struggle--sick alike in body and in heart--lays down her head upon her hands, and faintly weeps. “Now, Lettie, come; they will wonder where we are,” said Rose; and she dipped her hand in the little marble basin of the Lady’s Well, and bathed her aching eyes. Lettie, with a visionary awe, bathed hers too, as if it were an act of worship; and was very sad, in the depths of her heart. Rose was a bad dissembler. It was quite impossible to hide from any one of them that she was very melancholy; but Harry saw less of the truth than the rest, for Rose struggled valiantly to smile before Harry, and to keep all her gloom concealed. He was a man, even though he was her dearest brother. She would suffer anything before she would disclose her heart to him. Agnes, troubled and perplexed, not knowing whether to take notice of Rose’s sorrow or not, paid her all manner of little tender attentions, as if she had been ill. Martha, asking nothing--for Martha knew very well that Cuthbert had broken no word, nor had ever definitely _said_ to Rose anything which could give grounds for this sadness--talked to her sometimes of the common trials which common people bear and overcome; sometimes awoke her out of a reverie, with a kind hand upon her shoulder, and a quick word in her ear; employed her all day long at something; watched her perpetually with a mother’s unwavering care; but little Lettie, looking wistfully up, with her dark, melancholy eyes--Lettie, who knew that Rose’s heart was “like to break,” and who deserted all her play to sit beside her on the carpet, and press close to her feet, and caress them softly with her hand--Lettie was perhaps the best comforter of all.