“How can I tell you?  I must wait for a vacancy, I suppose, and then be sent to the Devil’s Icy Peak or Fort Jumping Off Place, or some such other pleasant post of duty on the confines of terra incognita.  But the farther off, the stranger and the savager it is, the better I shall like it for my own sake, but it will be rough on Cora,” said the youth.

“But you do not dream of taking Cora out there?” exclaimed Clarence, in pained surprise.

“Oh, but I do!  She insists on going where I go.  She is bent on being a voluntary, unsalaried missionary and school-mistress to the Indians just because Rule died a martyred minister and teacher among them.”

“She is mad!” exclaimed Mr. Clarence; “mad.”

“She has had enough to make her mad, but she is sane enough on this subject, I can tell you, Uncle Clarence.  She is the most level-headed young woman that I know, and the plan of life that she has laid out for herself is the best course she could possibly pursue under the present circumstances.  She is very miserable here.  This plan will give her the most complete change of scene and the most interesting occupation.  It will cure her of her melancholy and absorption in her troubled past, and when she shall be cured she may return to her friends here, or she may meet with some fine fellow out there who may make her forget the dead and leave off her weeds.  That is what I hope for, Uncle Clarence.”

And for the rest of their walk they trudged on in silence or with but few words passed between them.  It was sunset when they reached North End.

That evening when Sylvan and Cora found themselves together for a moment at Rockhold House, the youth said: 

“Corona Rothsay, the sooner I get my orders and you and I depart for Scalping Creek or Perdition Peak, or wherever I am to be shoveled off to, the better, my dear,” said the young soldier.

“What do you think of it all now, Sylvan?” she inquired.

“I think, Cora, that while we do stay here it would be Christian charity to be very good to ‘the Rose that all admire.’  Nobody will admire her any more, I think.”

“Why?” inquired Cora, in surprise.

“Oh, you didn’t see her face.  She had her mask veil, do you call it?—­down, so you couldn’t see.  But, oh, my conscience! how she is changed in these last six weeks!  She is not a blooming rose any more.  She is a snubbed, trampled on, crushed, and wilted rose.  Her face looks pale; her hair dull; her eyes weak; her beauty nowhere; her cheerfulness nowhere else.”

Early the next morning, after a hasty breakfast, Mr. Rockharrt entered his carriage to drive to the works.  Young Mrs. Rockharrt, under the plea of fatigue from her long journey, retired to her own room.

Cora said to her brother: 

“Sylvan, I wish you would order the little carriage and take me to the Banks to see Violet.  I should have paid her this attention sooner but for the pressure of work that has been upon me.  I must defer it no longer, but go this morning.”