Rose, all gentle as she was, roused, and said, that for herself she had no ambition beyond that of being the useful wife of an honest man; that Edward had honoured her, and, sorry as she should be to displease the only parent she had ever known, she had plighted her faith in the temple of her own heart to him—­and as long as the plight was of value in his eyes, it could not be withdrawn.  How truly did Edward Lynne feel that she indeed would be a crown of glory to his old age, as well as to his manhood’s prime!

The scene—­for there are “scenes” wherever human passion runs wild—­ended by Mrs. Myles working herself into the belief that she was the most ill-used old lady in the British dominions.  She commanded Edward from her presence; and though Rose wept and knelt at her feet, she refused to be pacified, declaring that if it had not been for the rheumatism, she would herself act as nurse to Helen, and not suffer so low-minded a creature as Rose Dillon to look on the splendour of her cousin’s house.  What she thought of that splendour, an extract from a letter—­not the first or second—­which replied to those she had received from Edward, will best tell: 

“I have seen a great deal to astonish—­every thing seems wonderful in London—­only I wish the people seemed more really happy.  I have been thinking that happiness is not a sudden thing like joy; it is more quiet—­it takes time to be happy—­and the people here have no time.  In the midst of the gayest party, they do not suffer themselves to enjoy it, but keep hurrying on to the next.  I remember when we were children, Helen and I, we have sat an hour over a bunch of wildflowers, yet not discovered half their beauties; surely excitement and happiness are not twin-born.  Since Helen has been better, numbers of ladies have called, so beautifully dressed, and so gentle-mannered and reserved, one so very like the other, that they might have all been brought up at the same school.  They never appear to confide in each other, but make a talk, after their own calm fashion, about small things.  Still, when they talk, they do not say much, considering how highly bred they are.  I have listened throughout an entire morning (a fashionable morning, Edward, does not begin until three o’clock in the afternoon), and really could not remember a single observation made by a drawing-room full of ladies. We could not talk ten minutes with dear Mr. Stokes, without hearing something that we could not help remembering all the days of our lives.  It is wonderful how superior Helen is (I am not afraid to tell you so) to every one around her; there is a natural loftiness of mind and manner visible in her every movement, that carries off her want of those pretty accomplishments which the ladies value so highly.  And then she is so beautiful, and her husband is so proud of having the handsomest woman in London for his wife; and one artist begs to model her ear, another her hand—­you cannot think how fair