“Ought I to write and tell him he’d better not come?” she asked herself, as she had done a dozen times already, but still unable to decide that she would request him not to make the visit. Her heart was longing to see him again, but what she said to herself was, “It would be a disappointment to mother if he should not come.” Oh, traitor heart, that with its insidious desires undermines the defenses of the will and levels to the dust the walls of human determination! If wishfulness stand within the gate when temptation knocks outside it is only the sternest “no,” to both of them, over and over again, resolute and unchanging and giving way not so much as a hair’s breadth, that can save the day. If man’s desires always squared with his knowledge of the right perhaps the world would be a cleaner and a sweeter place to live in. But it would lack the inspiring savor of that grim struggle between them, as old as the race, by which humankind has mounted a few of the steps toward heaven. Man’s inability to say “no” to himself, stoutly and often, is responsible for more of his ills than is all “man’s inhumanity to man.” And to dally with desire, to argue with the traitor within the gates, to listen for a moment to his specious pleading, is to make it ever harder and harder to utter the one blunt word that alone brings peace. Doubtless Rhoda did not know, for she was not much given to introspection, that if she did not come to quick and sharp conclusions with the insurgent within her own breast she was but lengthening the conflict and making it the more difficult to stand to the line she had set. She was quite sure of her determination that she would not marry Jefferson Delavan and she would have been amazed and incredulous had any one told her that even by this yielding to her love in the privacy of her own room and debating with herself as to whether or not she should see him again she was throwing doubt upon the issue. So she sat there fondling the withered rose, which his lips had touched, and the letter, which his hand had written, and thinking that it would do no harm if he should come again, for they would meet hereafter merely as friends. Surely they were both strong enough to be just good friends, and to keep hidden whatever might be in their hearts. They were so congenial, they enjoyed each other’s society so much, why shouldn’t they have the pleasure of meeting now and then? And her mother was so fond of him, it really would not be fair to her to tell him that he must not visit them. Yes, it would surely be for the best, and to-morrow she would ask her mother to write and say they would be glad to see him whenever he should come. Her heart gave a little bound at this victory and her lips unconsciously formed themselves into the tenderest of smiling curves as she pressed them upon the withered rose. Then she put the box carefully away, blew out her candle and knelt beside the open window.