“I have only been away a fortnight,” said Rose, with a trembling lip, “and I shall feel nothing but a visitor when I go back on Saturday. You--you only ask me because I went home yesterday and found you gone. I don’t believe you want me a bit.” And, to Tom’s distress and amazement, Rose, poor little homesick Rose, burst into tears. “I wish you would go back with me this minute and you’d find out whether we wanted you,” he exclaimed, drawing her hands down from her face. “You silly child, what would Aunt Lucy say if she heard you talking such nonsense? Rosie, just listen to me a moment. I am going to tell you something I haven’t even told Aunt Lucy yet, though I believe she guesses. Don’t cry any more. Just listen to me.” The quiver in Tom’s voice made Rose look wonderingly at him. It was very unlike him to show any emotion. His cool, matter-of-fact way of looking at things had often irritated her. But she saw now that he was deeply moved. And the reason of his agitation suddenly flashed upon her. “Oh, Tom!” she faltered out. “Rosie, you’ll try to like her?” he said eagerly. “I’m not sure--I’m sure of nothing, except that I shall never be happy again unless--Rosie, you will be nice to her? You don’t know her. There is nobody like her. You won’t be able to help liking her, I’m sure of that.” Rose was still looking at him with wide-open, wondering eyes. “But, Tom, is she--is she a lady?” she faltered. He frowned. “She hasn’t sixteen quarterings on her shield, if you mean that. But you won’t ask the question again when you have seen her, Rose.” Rose did not remind him that she had seen her. She was trying to recall her as she sat at the side table busy over her typewriting. Her jealousy of Rhoda had somehow vanished in the light of Tom’s wonderful confession. She was eager to see the girl again who might one day be her sister. “Do you really think Aunt Lucy knows, Tom?” she asked in a doubtful voice. Tom’s future wife had been often a subject for conversation between Miss Merivale and Rose. And of the two, Miss Merivale had been the more ambitious in her wishes. She had seemed to think that hardly anyone could be good enough for Tom. “I’m sure she knows,” returned Tom, with conviction. “But don’t say anything to her, Rosie. I shouldn’t have told you unless”-- “I’m glad you told me, Tom,” said Rose, drawing a deep breath. “And I’m sure I shall like her. I’m sure she must be nice.” Tom beamed at her. “But you did see her for a moment, Rosie. She came here while you were staying with Miss Smythe last month.” “Yes; she sat at that table, and wrote the letters,” Rose said, nodding towards the little side table in the corner. “She had a brown dress on, I remember. Tom, am I expected to say that I thought her very pretty? I hardly looked at her.” “Well, you will see her on Saturday,” Tom said.