“Quarrelled! Dear mamma, I never had a quarrel with any one in all my life, and never expect to have one with anybody—least of all with Bob.” “That is no reason you should not have a lover’s quarrel—_they_ befall the most amiable pair. Is it so?” “What, mamma?” “Have you and Robert had a ‘lover’s quarrel?’” “No, indeed—I assure you.” “Yet Robert went away offended—‘in dudgeon,’ as uncle would say.” Rosalie looked distressed. The lady eyed her searchingly. “Rosalie, will you let me speak to you frankly, and ask you a few questions?” “Certainly, dear mamma; I would turn my heart inside out, and show you its most hidden secret, if it had any secrets.” “Well, then, are you and Robert engaged?” “No, mamma.” “He has not yet proposed, then?” “I scarcely know, mamma, whether I ought to reveal poor Robert’s confidences.” “Well?” “Well, mamma!” “You did not reject him?” “Yes, madam.” “I’m astonished! How long ago has this been?” “Dear mamma, twelve months ago Robert first did me the honour of offering his hand, and I gratefully declined it.” “Yet continued to keep his company! Oh, Rosalie! Well, has he ever renewed his proposals?” “Yes, mamma, several times.” “And you have continued to reject them?” “Of course, mamma.” “And yet you still accept his attentions! Oh, Rosalie!” “Was I—am I wrong, mamma?” asked Rosalie, looking up from where she reclined upon the sofa. The lady sat with her hands clasped upon her knees, in a simple attitude, with her eyes fixed in sorrowful doubt upon her child. “Do you ever mean to review your decision, and accept him, Rosalie?” “Never, mamma, I assure you!” “Are you very certain, Rosalie?” “Certain, dear mamma, beyond all possibility of doubt.” “If I could believe it”—— “Dear mamma, you may rest assured of it! Why, if I thought it was to be my fate to marry Robert Bloomfield, well as I like him, I think I should die of grief!” “And yet you keep his company! Oh! Rosalie, I am surprised.” “Is it not right, mamma?” “What a simple question! Oh, child! if it were not you, I should say it is unprincipled!” “Mamma, you distress and alarm me! Why must I not keep poor Robert’s company, when he takes so much comfort in my society?” “Comfort! Does he take comfort—do you call it comfort? No, Rosalie, it is a feverish, consuming hope that keeps him at your side; a wasting, baleful hope, which, since you do not intend to realize to him, it is your bounden duty to extinguish forever!” “Mamma! I do not quite understand you. I am sorry, very sorry, that I cannot return Robert’s regard”—— “Oh!” exclaimed the lady, interrupting her, “I am not sorry for _that_: as to _that_, I am very glad you are not engaged to him, nor ever likely to be; but”—— “But why add to the grief of rejection the bitterness of ingratitude and coldness?” “To refuse his attentions, to deny him your company, would not be either the one or the other, and it is your duty.”