'Well, I shall hear the carriage coming to the door, and I'll return and bid you good-night. It is plain, Rachel, you do not like my company.' 'True, Dorcas, I do _not_ like your company. You are unjust; you have no confidence in me; you prejudge me without proof; and you have quite ceased to love me. Why should I like your company?' Dorcas smiled a proud and rather sad smile at this sudden change from the conventional to the passionate; and the direct and fiery charge of her kinswoman was unanswered. She stood meditating for a minute. 'You think I no longer love you, Rachel, as I did. Perhaps young ladies' friendships are never very enduring; but, if it be so, the fault is not mine.' 'No, Dorcas, the fault is not yours, nor mine. The fault is in circumstances. The time is coming, Dorcas, when you will know all, and, maybe, judge me mercifully. In the meantime, Dorcas, _you_ cannot like _my_ company, because you do not like me; and I do not like yours, just because, in spite of all, I do love you still; and in yours I only see the image of a lost friend. You may be restored to me soon--maybe _never_--but till then, I have lost you.' 'Well,' said Dorcas, 'it may be there is a wild kind of truth in what you say, Rachel, and--no matter--_time_, as you say, and _light_--I don't understand you, Rachel; but there is this in you that resembles me--we both hate hypocrisy, and we are both, in our own ways, proud. I'll come back, when I hear the carriage, and see you for a moment, as you won't stay, or come with me, and bid you good-bye.' So Dorcas went her way; and alone, on the terrace, looking over the stone balustrade--over the rich and sombre landscape, dim and vaporous in the twilight--she still saw the pale face of Rachel--paler than she liked to see it. Was she ill?--and she thought how lonely she would be if Rachel were to die--how lonely she was now. There was a sting of compunction--a yearning--and then started a few bitter and solitary tears. In one of the great stone vases, that are ranged along the terrace, there flourished a beautiful and rare rose. I forget its name. Some of my readers will remember. It is first to bloom--first to wither. Its fragrant petals were now strewn upon the terrace underneath. One blossom only remained untarnished, and Dorcas plucked it, and with it in her fingers, she returned to the porch where Rachel remained. 'You see, I have come back a little before my time,' said Dorcas. 'I have just been looking at the plant you used to admire so much, and the leaves are shed already, and it reminded me of our friendship, Radie; but I am sure you are right; it will all bloom again, after the winter, you know, and I thought I would come back, and say _that_, and give you this relic of the bloom that is gone--the last token,' and she kissed Rachel, as she placed it in her fingers, 'a token of remembrance and of hope.' 'I will keep it, Dorkie. It was kind of you,' and their eyes met regretfully.