A shadow crossed Rose’s face and her beauty took on an appealing wistfulness.  She had been sheltered always and she hungered for Life as the sheltered often do.  Madame Bernard, for the thousandth time, looked at her curiously.  From the shapely foot that tapped restlessly on the rug beneath her white lace gown, to the crown of dusky hair with red-gold lights in it, Rose was made for love—­and Madame wondered how she had happened to miss it.

“Aunt Francesca,” said Rose, with a whimsical sadness, “do you realise that I’m forty to-day?”

“That’s nothing,” returned the other, serenely.  “Everybody has been forty, or will be, if they live.”

“I haven’t lived yet,” Rose objected.  “I’ve only been alive.”

“‘While there’s life there’s hope,’” quoted Madame lightly.  “What do you want, dear child?  Battle, murder, and sudden death?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Let’s take an inventory and see if we can find out.  You have one priceless blessing—­good health.  You have considerably more than your share of good looks.  Likewise a suitable wardrobe; not many clothes, but few, and those few, good.  Clothes are supposed to please and satisfy women.  You have musical talent, a love of books and flowers, a fine appreciation of beauty, a host of friends, and that one supreme gift of the gods—­a sense of humour.  In addition to all this, you have a comfortable home and an income of your own that enables you to do practically as you please.  Could you ask for more?”

“Not while I have you, Aunt Francesca.  I suppose I’m horrid.”

“You couldn’t be, my dear.  I’ve left marriage out of the question, since, if you’d had any deep longing for it, you’d have chosen some one from the horde that has infested my house for fifteen years and more.  You’ve surely been loved.”

Rose smiled and bit her lip.  “I think that’s it,” she murmured.  “I’ve never cared for anybody—­like that.  At least, I don’t think I have.”

“‘When in doubt, don’t,’” resumed the other, taking refuge in a platitude.  “Is there any one of that faithful procession whom you particularly regret?”

“No,” answered Rose, truthfully.

“Love is like a vaccination,” continued the little lady in grey, with seeming irrelevance.  “When it takes, you don’t have to be told.”

Her tone was light, almost flippant, and Rose, in her turn, wondered at the woman and her marvellous self-control.  At twenty-five, Madame Bernard married a young French soldier, who had chosen to serve his adopted country in the War of the Rebellion.  In less than three months, her gallant Captain was brought home to her—­dead.

For a long time, she hovered uncertainly between life and death.  Then, one day, she sat up and asked for a mirror.  The ghost of her former self looked back at her, for her colour was gone, her hair was quickly turning grey, and the light had vanished from her eyes.  Yet the valiant spirit was not broken, and that day, with high resolve, she sent her soul forward upon the new way.