Hagar, half repenting her harshness to Rosalia, and entirely ignorant of the scene that followed, went to the girl’s room, to inquire concerning her health. She entered it. Rosalia was lying on the bed, with both open hands spread over her face—pressed upon her face—she did not remove them as Hagar entered. This Hagar attributed to resentment. She went and stood by her bed in silence an instant, and then called to her— “Rosalia!” She started—shuddered. “Are you ill, Rosalia?” A silent nod was her reply. “Can I do anything for you?” She shook her head, in mournful negation. “Will you have anything?—speak!” “Nothing.” “Where are you ill?” “All over.” “What _will_ you have, Rosalia?” “_Solitude!_” “Are you angry, Rose?” “No.” “I suspect you are!” “No.” Hagar went up to her, and drew her hands away from her face. The hands were icy cold—the face snowy pale. To avoid Hagar’s glance, she closed her eyes, while a shudder ran all over her frame. Hagar went into her own room, poured out a glass of wine, and brought it to her. She waved it off, and turned her face to the wall. After some further fruitless attempts to aid her, and after finding that all her efforts increased the girl’s distress, Hagar left the room, thoroughly persuaded that Rosalia was sulking with _her_, and determining to send Mrs. Collins in to her. The housekeeper entered—there was a sternness about the expression of her shut mouth and solid-looking chin, that we have never seen there before, as she looked at the languid girl. “What is the matter, Miss Aguilar?” she inquired, rather abruptly. Rose uncovered her face, and looking up with an agonized, an imploring expression, said— “I am sick all over, and I want to go to Sophie!” “I think if that were possible it would be very well.” “Is it not possible, then—can’t I—oh, _can’t_ I go?” “Your friends are on the sea, Miss Aguilar, I presume.” “And is there _no_ way to get to them—no way, oh, my God! to escape?” “I do not know much of these things, Miss Aguilar, but I should think it were quite out of the question.” “No way, oh! my God, to escape!” “What do you mean, Miss Aguilar, by that?” “I mean—oh! I mean—that I am _crazy_—and have no one to love me and take care of me _till I come to my senses_!” said Rose, pressing her temples. “I am done to death—_done to death_!” “I do not understand you, Miss Aguilar,” said the old lady, seating herself, and looking steadily and severely at the pale girl. “Don’t look so hard at me, Mrs. Collins, please don’t—oh! I am _crazy_!—yes, I must be!—yes, I must be! Oh! Mrs. Collins, I have been delirious—delirious within the last hour, and I am insane still!—_Insane still!_ I—oh! my God!—I did not know before that people _could_ be crazy and _know_, and not be able to get well!” “_What has turned you crazy, Miss Aguilar?_” “Oh! don’t call me ‘Miss Aguilar,’ _every time_, and don’t look so hard at me!” cried Rose, covering her face with her hands.