“I like this one,” she said. “It’s where you get the view between the two copper beeches. But Rose?” she went on. “I must just peep at her before I sleep.” I advised against it. “To-morrow,” I said. “When you’re not so tired.” No, now, or she could not rest. I pointed out Rose’s door and she tiptoed in. In a moment she was on the landing again. “It’s empty!” she exclaimed. “The bed is untouched.” I tried to reassure her. “But where is she? This is terrible,” she repeated. “We must find her.” I told her not to be alarmed. Rose was probably walking off her disturbance of mind. The sudden appearance of her mother must, I know, have given her too much to think of, and she was doing what she often did in moments of high tension—she was fighting her perplexities under the open sky. “Ah!” said Rose. “It would have been better for me not to have come back.” “Don’t say so,” I replied. “Go to your room now. I’ll wait for Rose—perhaps I’ll go and look for her, but I don’t think that is necessary; these are safe parts. She is probably in the garden.” “She hasn’t—you don’t think—she hasn’t gone away altogether?” her mother faltered. “Good Heavens, no! She often does this, and with far less reason. I’ll knock and reassure you very soon now”; and thus I got her to retire. Rose came back some anxious hours later, at dawn. She was worn out. It was as I had guessed. The poor child’s castle in the air having collapsed, she had been collecting energy for the rebuilding. But this time there was to be a less alluring site: the castle must be on the prosaic earth and the foundations dug by the dull spade, duty. All this her tired face told me. “O Dombeen!” she said as she seized my arm and clung to it. “I know,” I said. “Where is she?” “In the Red Room.” “I’ll go to her.” “To-night? So late?” I said. “I was wondering if it would not be better in the morning.” “No, now. For a moment only.” I left her at her mother’s door. * * * * * I was up early the next day, but Rose—the younger Rose—for all her late hours, was before me. I found her at the breakfast table dressed in her ordinary morning blue overall. She was wan. “But what’s this?” I asked. “Why aren’t you ready for the train?” “I’m not going,” she said. “I’ve sent some telegrams.” “But—” I began. “Please don’t make it more difficult,” Rose replied, and her eyes filled with tears. “I hope you haven’t countermanded the car,” I said, after a few moments of swift thought; for I could see that something must be done. “No—there was no hurry for that,” she mumbled brokenly. “Because I’ve got to go to London anyway,” I said. “I was going with you,” I added, as a mendacious but brilliant afterthought, “but I was keeping it as a surprise. I’ll be back to-night.”