“I thought you must mean a green-grocer,” said John. “Let him alone, Sophy, that is the best way; everything of the kind is best left to nature. I shall be very happy to see him if he comes, and I will not break my heart if he doesn’t come. It is always most easy, and generally best, to let things alone.” “Well, if you think so, John.” There was a little hesitation in Mrs. Lennox’s tone, but it was not in her to enforce a contrary view. And as it was a point he insisted upon that nothing should be said to Rosalind on the subject, that, too, was complied with. It was not, indeed, a subject on which Mrs. Lennox desired to tackle Rosalind. She had herself the greatest difficulty in refraining from all discussion of poor Grace, but she never cared to discuss her with Rosalind, who maintained Mrs. Trevanion’s cause with an impetuosity which confused all her aunt’s ideas. She could not hold her own opinion against professions of faith so strenuously made; and yet she did hold it in a wavering way, yielding to Rosalind’s vehemence for the moment, only to resume her own convictions with much shaking of her head when she was by herself. It was difficult for her to maintain her first opinion on the subject of Mr. Rivers and his people. When he called he made himself so agreeable that Mrs. Lennox could not restrain the invitation that rushed to her lips. “John will be so sorry that he has missed you; won’t you come and dine with us on Saturday?” she said, before she could remember that it was not desirable he should be encouraged to come to the house. And Rosalind had been so grateful to him for never returning to the subject of the photograph, or seeming to remember anything about it, that his natural attraction was rather increased than diminished to her by that incident. There were few men in the neighborhood who talked like Mr. Rivers. He knew everybody, he had been everywhere. Sometimes, when he talked of the beautiful places he had seen, Rosalind was moved by a thrill of expectation; she waited almost breathless for a mention of Spain, for something that would recall to him the interrupted conversation of the first evening. But he kept religiously apart from every mention of Spain. He passed by the writing-table upon which the shrine in which the portrait was enclosed stood, now always shut, without so much as a glance which betrayed any association with it, any recollection. Thank Heaven, he had forgotten all that, it had passed from his mind as a mere trivial accident without importance. She was satisfied, yet disappointed, too. But it never occurred to Rosalind that this scrupulous silence meant that Rivers had by no means forgotten; and he was instantly conscious that the portrait was covered; he lost nothing of these details. Though the story had faded out of the recollection of the Clifton people, to whom it had never been well known, he did not fail to discover something of the facts of the case;