Yes, Mr. Delafield was jealous—terribly jealous of Dr. Clayton, the nature of whose business he readily divined, though I did not, and nothing was further from my mind than the thought that he intended honoring me with a chance of becoming Mrs. Clayton 2d. And yet it was this alone which had brought him to Georgia, he taking the precaution to send on in advance a letter, in which he had made known his wishes, and asked for a return of the affection which, for five long years, he said, had never known one moment of abatement, even though another had slept upon his bosom as his wife. But _she_ was gone, and in her place, he would see blooming, he said, the _Rose_ he had loved so long. Owing to some detention, this letter had failed to reach me, hence I was wholly unprepared for the scene which followed when, at last we were left alone. Well skilled in the _signs_, Mrs. Lansing had purposely retired, not long after her brother’s departure, while I, suspecting nothing, made no objection when Dr. Clayton took his seat upon the sofa at my side. I was talking to him of Anna, and from speaking of her, and poor Herbert’s death, it was an easy transition to Dell, of whom he spoke kindly, nay, even affectionately, as he told me of her last days; how much she suffered, and how gentle she became, never chiding him, in the least, for a thing unskillfully done, but seeming satisfied with everything, and loving him at last with a love which, had it been earlier born, would have shed happiness over his comparatively cheerless life. Then he told me of the little child, not yet three years old, whom he had called “Rosa Lee,” and gently pushing back my curls, and gazing down into my face, he said, “It is a fancy of mine, perhaps, but I love to think she looks like you, who should have been her mother.” With all my stupidity, I understood him then, and blushing crimson, I moved away to the end of the sofa, while he continued, “What did you think of my letter? You received it, I suppose?” I had received no letter, and so I said; whereupon he proceeded to tell me its contents, a part of which the reader already knows. Utterly confounded and powerless to move, I sat motionless, while, with his arm around me, he went over with the past, recalling to my mind, with a vividness which made it seem real again, the time when first he had found me weeping in the sombre old schoolroom, away to the northward; the night when, with the soft moon-beams falling around us, we sat together beneath the tall oak tree, while I laid before him my childish griefs; and, lastly, the many pleasant hours we had whiled away together, listening to the sound of the running brook, which ran past the twining grape-vine, whose broad leaves had rustled above our heads. “On these occasions, Rose,” said he, “did nothing ever tell you how much you were beloved?”