And still, occasionally, Rosa dared to hope that her love was returned, else why did each day find him at her side where he lingered so long, saying to her but little, but watching her movements, and listening to her words, as he would not have done had she been to him an object of indifference. Not naturally quick to read human nature, Mrs. Lansing was wholly deceived by her brother’s cold exterior, and never dreaming how in secret he worshiped the humble girl she called her governess, she left them much together. Why then did he never speak to her of the passion which had become a part of his being? Simply because he, too, was deceived. Once, indeed, he had essayed to tell her of his love, and dreading lest his affection should not be returned, he was the more ready to construe her evasive replies into a belief that it was indeed as he feared. Then, too, her shy, reserved manner, while it made him prize her all the more, disheartened him; for not thus was he accustomed to being treated, and with that jealousy which seems to be the twin sister of love, he ofttimes thought he read aversion and distrust, when there was, on Rosa’s part, naught save a fear lest he should discover her secret, and despise her for it. Added to this was the remembrance of what Ada had said concerning her former engagement with Dr. Clayton. True, Rosa had denied the engagement, but when charged with having loved him she had remained silent; thus proving the story correct. And if she loved him when a child, was it not probable that she loved him still, married man though he was. He had heard of such things, or, at least, he had read of them in books, and for many days Mr. Delafield’s brow was literally tied up in knots, while he tried to solve the question as to “whether, having loved once and been deceived, Rosa Lee could love again.” At last he decided that possibly she could, and his mind was fully made up to talk with her upon the subject, when an unexpected arrival blasted his hopes at once, and darkened the glimmering sunlight which was dawning upon his horizon. It was a dark, rainy night, toward the last of April, that I sat with the family in the pleasant little sitting-room. As usual, Mr. Delafield was with us, and this evening he was reading aloud from Longfellow’s wonderful poem. He was just in the midst of Hiawatha’s wooing, and I fancied there was in the tones of his voice a softer cadence as he read, “Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, Fare thee well, oh, Laughing Water.”