“Why, what is the matter?”

“You will hate me now.  He is gone to make money for me; and I would rather have lived on a crust.  Uncle—­don’t hate me.  I’m a poor, bereaved, heart-broken creature, that repents.”

“Repents! heigho! why, what have you been up to now, ma’am?  No great harm, I’ll be bound.  Flirting a little with some fool—­eh?”

“Flirting!  Me! a married woman.”

“Oh, to be sure; I forgot.  Why, surely he has not deserted you.”

“My Christopher desert me!  He loves me too well; far more than I deserve; but not more than I will.  Uncle Philip, I am too confused and wretched to tell you all that has happened; but I know you love him, though you had a tiff:  uncle, he called on you, to shake hands and ask your forgiveness, poor fellow!  He was so sorry you were away.  Please read his dear diary:  it will tell you all, better than his poor foolish wife can.  I know it by heart.  I’ll show you where you and he quarrelled about me.  There, see.”  And she showed him the passage with her finger.  “He never told me it was that, or I would have come and begged your pardon on my knees.  But see how sorry he was.  There, see.  And now I’ll show you another place, where my Christopher speaks of your many, many acts of kindness.  There, see.  And now please let me show you how he longed for reconciliation.  There, see.  And it is the same through the book.  And now I’ll show you how grieved he was to go without your blessing.  I told him I was sure you would give him that, and him going away.  Ah, me! will he ever return?  Uncle dear, don’t hate me.  What shall I do, now he is gone, if you disown me?  Why, you are the only Staines left me to love.”

“Disown you, ma’am! that I’ll never do.  You are a good-hearted young woman, I find.  There, run and dry your eyes; and let me read Christopher’s diary all through.  Then I shall see how the land lies.”

Rosa complied with his proposal; and left him alone while she bathed her eyes, and tried to compose herself, for she was all trembling at this sudden irruption.

When she returned to the drawing-room, he was walking about, looking grave and thoughtful.

“It is the old story,” said he, rather gently:  “a misunderstanding.  How wise our ancestors were that first used that word to mean a quarrel! for, look into twenty quarrels, and you shall detect a score of mis-under-standings.  Yet our American cousins must go and substitute the un-ideaed word ‘difficulty’; that is wonderful.  I had no quarrel with him:  delighted to see either of you.  But I had called twice on him; so I thought he ought to get over his temper, and call on a tried friend like me.  A misunderstanding!  Now, my dear, let us have no more of these misunderstandings.  You will always be welcome at my house, and I shall often come here and look after you and your interests.  What do you mean to do, I wonder?”