“Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, Than friendship, love or passion are, Yet human still as they. And if thy lip for love like this No mortal word can frame, Go ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name.”—_Moore._ Rosalie Vivian and Robert Bloomfield reached home just as the carriage containing Colonel Ashley rolled into the yard. The old gentleman alighted, greeted the young people with a most cheerful and kindly smile, and with unusual vigour and lightness tripped up stairs into the house. His servant, laden with packets of newspapers and letters, followed. “You may take my word for it, Rosalie, that the Colonel has received some excellent news by this morning’s mail! And now just observe the power of the soul over the body! Joyful news will so rejuvenate infirm old age, that it will skip about, elastic as youth. Witness Colonel Ashley, who stepped up those stairs more lightly than I ever saw him move in my life; while disappointment and sorrow will so enfeeble youth that it will move about drooping like paralytic age. Witness me ready to drop from my saddle with exhaustion—from your unkindness, Rosalie!” “I am not unkind, nor do you look very much prostrated, let me say, Robert! But will you not come in?” “No,” mournfully replied the young man, assisting her to alight. “You had better—we have strawberries for the first time this spring.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Robert, with an offended air. “Strawberries from uncle’s premium conservatory, and cream from my own premium dairy; you had better think it over!” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Robert, contemptuously. “Oh, _then_, there’s no more to be said, of course!” “Good morning, Rosalie!” “Good morning, Robert; but won’t you shake hands with me?” she asked, offering her hand. He seized that little hand, and squeezed it and pressed it to his lips, and with an expression of curiously-blended deprecation and reproach, dropped it, mounted his horse, and galloped away. Mrs. Vivian was standing dawdling with a white rose in the piazza. She came forward, with tender care, to meet Rosalie. “Did you ride far—are you tired, love?” “Not very.” “But you look pale and wearied.” “A moment’s rest will restore me, dear mamma.” “Come in and sit down, while I take off your things,” said the kind little lady, leading her stepchild into the parlour. She sat her down in a deep-cushioned chair, rang the bell, ordered a cordial, and then removed her hat and riding skirt. When she had made Rosalie take a cracker and a little glass of anise-seed cordial, and when the salver was removed, and they were left alone, Rosalie reclining upon the sofa, Valeria sitting in the easy chair near her, the lady inquired— “Why did not Robert come in?” “I do not know, unless it was because he did not wish to do so.” “Have you quarrelled?”