He raised her up—she stood pale, trembling, bewildered, weak; and walked with tottering steps towards the door. He went and opened it—held it open for her—she passed; and as she passed, raised her eyes to his face, met his eyes full of anguish looking down upon hers, turned, and threw herself in his arms, exclaiming, “Oh, Raymond! Raymond! you are _so_ unhappy!—_I_ am so miserable to see you thus! Oh! Raymond, is it I? is it I that have made you so? Tell me! tell me! can I dissipate it?—can I drive your sadness away? Would my death do it, Raymond? I would _die_ for you! Oh! Raymond, it does not seem to me to be wrong to love you, love you so!—to love you so!” She hung heavily upon his bosom. “Go! go! go! go, Rose!—go, mad girl!” he cried, tearing her away from his bosom, and almost fiercely pushing her through the door, and shutting it abruptly upon her—then walking wildly up and down the floor, like a chafed tiger in his cage, grinding together his teeth, and exclaiming, “She loves me!—loves me!—loves me!—me first!—me only!—as she never loved before!” Rosalia crept slowly up the stairs—reached her own room, and threw herself upon her bed, her senses whirling in a bewildered maze. The sound of the pouring rain became painfully distinct in the dead silence. The dinner hour arrived. The servants came in to lay the cloth. Raymond Withers walked to the window to conceal his still unsubdued agitation. When all was ready, the ladies were, as usual, summoned by a message. Soon Hagar entered. Raymond met her at the door, with a troubled, gloomy look, and giving her his arm, conducted her to the table. He looked around, and uneasily watched the door, but did not inquire for Rosalia. She, also, waited for the entrance of the girl, expecting her every instant. At last she said to the servant in attendance, “Let Miss Aguilar know that dinner is ready.” The man left the room and soon returned— “Miss Aguilar is not well, and begs to be excused,” he said. They raised their eyes, and met each other’s gaze of inquiry at the same moment, but neither asked a question, or made a comment upon her absence—each was silent from a private motive of his or her own. Hagar supposed that her harshness had deeply wounded the sensitive girl (as it really had), and that that was the reason of her absence—while Raymond, of course, _knew_ the real cause. The dreary meal was over—they arose from the table—Hagar was preparing to leave the room. Raymond went after her, and took her hand, looking with a troubled expression into her face—she met that strange look with a sad, inquiring gaze. “Where are you going, Hagar?” “Up stairs.” “Will you not stay, and pass the afternoon with _me_, Hagar?” She looked at him in anxious, in sorrowful perplexity. “_Do_, Hagar—I need you so much now!” “Ah! for want of more attractive company!” exclaimed she; and laughing bitterly, threw off his hand, and left the room.