And, as it happened, by a chance which seemed to Roland providential, he found Rosalind alone when he entered the drawing-room at the Elms. Mrs. Lennox had taken Sophy with her in the carriage to the dentist at Clifton; Roland felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Sophy, that little imp of mischief, was going to have a tooth drawn. The gentlemen were out, and Miss Rosalind was alone. Roland could have hugged Saunders for this information; he gave him a sovereign, which pleased the worthy man much better, and flew three steps at a time up-stairs. Rosalind was seated by her writing-table. It subdued him at once to see her attitude. She had been crying already. She had not waited for the faithful bosom. And he thought that when she was disturbed by the opening of the door, she had closed the little gates of that carved shrine in which Madam’s picture dwelt; otherwise she did not move when she saw who her visitor was, but nodded to him, with relief, he thought. “Is it you, Roland? I thought you were sure to be out to-day,” she said. “No, I didn’t go out. I hadn’t the heart.” He came and sat down by her where she had made Rivers sit the previous night; she looked up at him with a little surprise. “Hadn’t the heart! What is the matter, Roland? Have you had bad news--is there anything wrong at home?” “No--nothing about my people. Rosalind, I haven’t slept a wink all night”--which was exaggeration, the reader knows--“thinking about you.” “About me!” She smiled, then blushed a little, and then made an attempt to recover the composure with which yesterday she had so calmly ignored his attempts at love-making. “I don’t see why you should lose your sleep about me; was it a little toothache--perhaps neuralgia? I know you are sometimes subject to that.” “Rosalind,” he said, solemnly, “you must not laugh at me to-day. It is nothing to laugh at. I could not help hearing what that fellow said last night.” The color ebbed away out of Rosalind’s face, but not the courage. “Yes!” she said, half affirmation, half interrogation; “that he had met mamma abroad.” “I can’t bear to hear you call her mamma. And it almost killed you to hear what he said.” She did not make any attempt to defend herself, but grew whiter, as if she would faint, and her mouth quivered again. “Well,” she said, “I do not deny that--that I was startled. Her dear name, that alone is enough to agitate me, and to hear of her like that without warning, in a moment.” The tears rose to her eyes, but she still looked him in the face, though she scarcely saw him through that mist.