It is useless to inculcate the spirit of meekness and Christian submission in a child when you cannot pluck the old Adam out of the heart. Rose was her father’s daughter; she meant to be a good Christian, she had little stiff limitations in her life, but she never thought of breaking her pride; it came to her with her blood, with her long and respectable descent from a race of God-fearing English yeomen, transplanted to the soil of a new world and endowed with a new and fuller stream of blood and physical beauty, but with the same hardy pluck, the same psalm-singing, fighting spirit which led the van at Naseby. If Fox loved Margaret, if he meant to marry White’s wife when she was free--Rose shuddered, she had learned her father’s views on divorce and re-marriage by heart. At least, he should not pity her! After awhile she lay down again and hid her burning face on her pillows, for it was wet with tears. She would not cry out, she would not flinch, but it hurt. In the morning she bathed her eyes again and again in cold water, dressed and went down to breakfast. The judge was reading his morning paper and they were both rather taciturn. The old man had troubles of his own just then which Rose knew nothing about. He had invested some money unwisely and had heavily endorsed the notes of a friend, a man he had trusted, but lately a doubt began to thrust itself into his abstracted mind. Besides his salary as judge he had but a slender fortune, and if that were really involved and he should die--he looked up over his paper at Rose with anxious, affectionate eyes. She was looking down at her cup of coffee and did not perceive his glance, but he saw again the trouble in her face and thought her eyes looked as if she had been weeping; there was a droop, too, to her lips which was unnatural. It set him thinking, and a cloud settled on his usually serene brow. After awhile he got up and went into his library to finish his paper before he went out, and he was still there when Rose came in and began to tend her plants. He noticed that she was very quiet and that she took less pains than usual. He laid down his paper. “Rose, has Allestree finished your picture yet?” he asked. “Yes, I think so,” she replied, blushing suddenly; “but he keeps on fussing over it. Perhaps we should send for it.” “I want to pay for it; I’ll send him a check to-day,” the judge said, opening a drawer and looking absently for his checkbook; “it may not be convenient later.” Rose set down her pitcher and stood twisting a broken leaf in her fingers. “He’ll never take anything for it, father.” The judge looked over his spectacles. “We can’t take such a present,” he remarked dryly; “I’m afraid you’ve let Robert fall in love with you, Rose.” She gave him a quick, pained glance. “I--I hope not!” she said softly. The old man smiled. “He’s a good boy, Rose; I shouldn’t disapprove except that I can’t spare you--I’m such a selfish old brute.”