"What a pretty child! Tom Fulton did well. He was a bad boy, wasn't he, Peter?" "Yes, grannie," said Peter, from the veranda rail where he sat picking rose leaves, "Tom was about the limit." "Well! well! poor girl. Maybe it's as well he went while she knew only the best of him." Peter was not sure she did know only the best, but he inquired,-- "Shall I have time to run down and see Osmond before dinner?" "You'd better. He was here waiting when the carriage came. When he saw her, he slipped away." "Rose?" "Rose? Is that her name? Now isn't that pretty! Maybe you'll find him before you get to the plantation. I shouldn't wonder if he'd think it over and come back." Peter did meet him in the lane lined with locusts on each side, walking doggedly back to the house. Some things the younger brother had forgotten about him, the beauty of the dark face that looked as if it had been cut out of rock, the extraordinary signs of strength, in spite of that which might have appealed to pity. Osmond had grown rugged with every year. His long arms, ending in the brown, supple hands, looked as if they were compact of sinewy potencies. And on his shoulders, heavier than Christian's burden, was that pack he must carry to the end of life. He saw his brother coming, and stopped, and Peter, as if to save him the sense of being looked at from afar, even by his own kin, ran to meet him. They did not take hands, but the older brother gave him a slap on the shoulder. "Well, boy!" said he. There were tears in Peter's eyes. "Look-a-here," he cried, "I'm sniveling. Coming up to the house?" "No. I've been there once this morning. You come back with me." They turned about, and walked on through the lane. It led to the plantation; this was the nursery, here were the forcing beds, and all the beneficent growing things that had saved Osmond's life while he tended them, and also earned his bread for him, and Peter's bread and paints. "Well, boy," said Osmond, "you've brought a girl with you. That was why I cut. Who is she?" "Tom Fulton's wife--his widow." Osmond knew Electra very well. Some phases of her were apparent to him in his secluded life that her lover, under the charm of an epistolary devotion, had never seen. "Does Electra know it?" he asked. "I told her." Peter's tone added further, "Shut up, now!" and Osmond tacitly agreed. "Coming down to dinner?" he asked safely. "No, I must be back. I feel responsible for her--Rose. I brought her over. In fact, I rather urged her coming. Grannie has asked her to stay with us until Electra is--at home." "Is her name Rose?" "Yes--one of those creamy yellow ones. You must see her. She's a dear. She's a beauty, too." "Oh, I've seen her,--one ear and a section of cheek and some yellow hair. Then I ran." "For heaven's sake, man! what for?" "She's one of those invincible Parisians. I've read about them." Peter burst out laughing. Osmond's tone betrayed a terrified admiration.