‘Indeed, you only do me justice, Anne,’ cried her stepmother, and a kiss was given and received; but perhaps it was scarcely possible that it should be a very warm caress. After they had eaten together Anne went back to her room, saying she had letters to write, and Rose and her mother played that game at bézique. It made the evening pass a little more quickly than if they had been seated on either side of the fire reading good books. And when the bézique was over Mrs. Mountford went to bed. There are many people who find in this a ready way of getting through their superfluous time. Mrs. Mountford did not mind how soon she went to bed; but this is not an amusement which commends itself to youth. When her mother was settled for the night, Rose, though she had promised to go too, felt a little stirring of her existence within her roused, perhaps, by the dissipation of the bézique. She allowed that she was tired; but still, after her mother was tucked up for the night, she felt too restless to go to bed. Where could she go but to Anne’s room, which had been her refuge all her life, in every trouble? Anne was still writing letters, or at least one letter, which looked like a book, there was so much of it, Rose thought. She came behind her sister, and would have looked over her shoulder, but Anne closed her writing-book quickly upon the sheet she was writing. ‘Are you tired, dear?’ she said--just, Rose reflected, like mamma. ‘I am tired--of doing nothing, and of being shut up. I hope mamma will let us come downstairs to-morrow,’ said Rose. Then she stole a caressing arm round her sister’s waist. ‘I wish you would tell me, Anne. What is it all about, and what does it mean?’ ‘It is not so easy to tell. I did not obey papa----’ ‘Are you sorry, Anne?’ ‘Sorry? very sorry to have vexed him, dear. If I had known he would be with us only such a little time--but one never knows.’ ‘I should have thought you would have been too angry to be sorry----’ ‘Angry--when he is dead?’ said Anne, with quick rising tears. ‘Oh, no! if he had been living I might have been angry; but now to think he cannot change it, and perhaps would do anything to change it----’ Rose did not understand this. She said in a little, petulant voice, ‘Is it so dreadfully wrong to give it to me instead of you?’ ‘There is no question of you or me,’ said Anne, ‘but of justice. It was my mother’s. You are made rich by what was hers, not his or anyone else’s. This is where the wrong lies. But don’t let us talk of it. I don’t mean to say a word against it, Rose.’ Then Rose roamed about the room, and looked at all the little familiar pictures and ornaments she knew. The room was more cheerful than her mother’s room, with all its heavy hangings, in which she had been living for a week. After a few minutes she came back and leaned upon Anne’s shoulder again. ‘I wish you would tell me what it means. What is In Trust? Have you a great deal to do with me?’ she said.