“Nor I. Can _you_ guess, Rose?” and Mrs. Vivian turned to her step-daughter, who remained silent, with her fingers in the unconscious clasp of Mark Sutherland’s hand. “I inquired only in jest, but now I really do believe you could tell us something about this,” persisted the lady, looking intently at the maiden. Rosalie’s pale face slightly flushed; she withdrew her hand, resumed her seat, and took up her work. Colonel Ashley, if he _felt_, certainly _expressed_ no surprise at this re-union; but as, with stately courtesy, he handed his niece to the head of the table, said, “As Mrs. Vivian arrived only yesterday afternoon, and retired at once to rest from the fatigue of her journey, and as Mr. Sutherland reached here last night, there has been no time for conversation about our arrangements.” “Ah, yes; that’s all very well; but you’ll never make me believe that Rose is not at the bottom of this, somehow,” laughed the widow, shaking her jetty curls as she sat down at the table. Her eyes met those of Rosalie for an instant, and the spirit of mischief was quelled. She became silent on that topic, and soon after changed the subject, entering into gay conversation about St. Gerald Ashley and his sudden fame. When breakfast was over, Colonel Ashley invited Mr. Sutherland to accompany him to his study, where he began to unfold his plan for the education of his boys. After hearing him through, Mark inquired when he should enter upon his new duties, and requested to defer the commencement until Monday, and to use the intervening time to become acquainted with his home and pupils. The interview then closed. Both gentlemen descended the stairs. Colonel Ashley told Mr. Sutherland that he would find the ladies in the parlour, and then, excusing himself, bade him good morning, and entered the carriage, which was waiting to take him to the village. Mark opened the parlour door, advanced into the room, and before he could retreat, saw and heard the fragment of an earnest interview between the mother and daughter. Mrs. Vivian sat upon the sofa, her head bent, her jetty curls drooping, her jetty eyelashes and rosy cheeks sprinkling and sparkling with teardrops, like morning dew upon a fresh flower. She was nimbly and nervously stitching away at a piece of muslin embroidery. Rosalie sat on a cushion before her, with her hands and her needlework fallen idly on her lap, and her pale hair fallen back from her paler, upturned brow, and earnest eyes, that were fixed upon her mother’s. She was asking in open accents, “Oh, mamma! can this be possible?” “Not only possible, but true, Rose,” replied the lady, dashing the sparkling tears away. “Oh, mamma! do not let him meet such a shock; prepare him for it, mamma.” “I cannot; how could I? Hush—here he is,” said she, perceiving Mark. And in an instant, presto! all was changed.