There stopped one day before the cottage a carriage, and out of it stepped Rosalind, in her handsomest traveling gown, with an anxious look on her beautiful face. “Ah, my dear senator!” she cried, holding up her face for a kiss, as he stepped out to meet her. “How glad I am to see you again! As soon as I got your cablegram I started to come to you, feeling that in your trouble my place was by your side to comfort you, for I feared that Marie and Lucile could not come as soon as I.” She had scarcely uttered the words when the sisters came out to greet her with kisses and loving welcomes. “But I thought you were absent on your wedding tours?” cried Rosalind, secretly chagrined at their return. They led her into the small sitting room, and she added, with eager curiosity: “I was told in Paris that your brother is living yet, but cannot recover. Is it true?” “He is living yet--and we hope he may recover,” Marie said tearfully, without noticing Rosalind’s frown at the news. Stifling an angry sob, Rosalind continued spitefully: “And that horrid girl--the daughter of our village tailoress--she also lives, I suppose? You cannot kill such people! They are very tough.” She was startled when Lucile said, with a certain proud dignity: “Please do not talk like that any more, Rosalind, for she is my sister now.” “And my daughter,” Senator Bonair said tenderly. “And a sweet, lovely creature!” Marie added frankly. “Well, upon my word!” cried Rosalind, in frank anger and amazement. She realized that Berenice was forgiven; worse still--beloved. An insane anger took possession of her, and she longed to strike every one in the face. It seemed to her, in her fury, that she could kill them. Her anger gave way to hysterical sobbing, and then the sisters fell to soothing her tenderly and explaining how it all came about. The senator had retreated, frowningly, at the first signs of hysterics, so the three were all alone, and the sisters felt it was the time to give good advice. “Oh, Rosalind, you will have to give in and be very friendly, or papa will be displeased with you,” they said. “And, after all, it will be better to have peace in the family, don’t you think so? For even if poor Charley lives, he and his wife will never intrude on you, unless you invite them, you know. But now, in the face of death, papa will not love you as well if you do not forgive.” It was a bitter pill for Rosalind, but she knew they were still her friends, and she did not care to antagonize them until she gained her point. She sobbed dismally a moment or two, then lifted a piteous face, and murmured: “Then I must try to forgive my enemies, for your father is the only friend I have in the world now, and if he turns against me I am all undone.” “Why, how strangely you are talking, Rosalind--you who have a father and mother, and hosts of friends!” they cried, in amazement.