"How long have you been in America?" asked the old lady civilly, though not sitting down. She had to realize that she was tired, that it would be the part of prudence to escape to her own room. "I have just come," said Rose, in a low, eloquent voice, its tones vibrating with her sense of the unfriendliness that had awaited her. "And where are you staying? How did you drift down here?" "At Mrs. Grant's--for the present." What might have been indignation warmed the words. "Grandmother, you must be tired," said Electra affectionately. "Let me go to your room with you, and see you settled." "Nonsense!" said the old lady briskly. "Nonsense! I'm going, but I don't need any help. Good-by, Miss MacLeod. I shall want to see you again when I have a head on my shoulders." She had gone, and still Electra made no sign of bidding her guest sit down again. Instead, she turned to Rose with an engaging courtesy. "You will excuse me, won't you? I ought to go to grandmother. She is far from strong." Rose answered quickly,-- "Forgive me! I will go. But"--she had reached the door, and paused there entreatingly--"when may I see you again?" "Grandmother's coming will keep me rather busy," said Electra, in her brilliant manner. "But I shall take great pleasure in returning your visit. Good-by." Rose, walking fast, was out upon the road again, blind to everything save anger, against herself, against the world. She had come to America upon an impulse, a daring one, sure that here were friendliness and safety such as she had never known. She had found a hostile camp, and every fibre in her thrilled in savage misery. Half way along the distance home Peter came eagerly forward to her from the roadside where he had been kicking his heels and fuming. The visit to Osmond had not been made. At the plantation gate he had turned back, unable to curb his desire to know what had gone on between these two. At once he read the signs of her distress, the angry red in her cheeks, the dilated eye. Even her nostrils seemed to breathe defiance or hurt pride. She spoke with unconsidered bitterness. "I ought never to have come." "What was it? Tell me." "It was nothing. I was received as an ordinary caller. That was all." "Who received you?" "She. Electra." "What then?" "I was presented to her grandmother as my father's daughter, not as her brother's--wife." She was breathless upon the word. All the color went out of her face. She looked faint and wan. "But it couldn't be," he was repeating. "Didn't you speak of Tom at all?" "No." "Didn't she?" "No." He essayed a bald and unreasonable comfort. "There, you see! You didn't mention him, and Electra hardly brings herself to do it to any one. He never ceased being a trial to her. You must let me say that." "Ah, that wasn't it! Every time I might have spoken, a hand, a clever, skillful hand and cold as ice pushed me away. I can never speak of it. She won't let me."