she came downstairs into the room where Robert was awaiting her, that she had but to speak and a mine would be sprung; and shrinking from it, hoping for it, she entered, and tried to fasten her eyes upon Robert distinctly, telling him the tale.  Robert listened with a calculating seriousness of manner that quieted her physical dread of his passion.  She finished; and he said “It will, perhaps, save your uncle:  I’m sure it will please your father.”

She sat down, feeling that a warmth had gone, and that she was very bare.

“Must I consent, then?”

“If you can, I suppose.”

Both being spirits formed for action, a perplexity found them weak as babes.  He, moreover, was stung to see her debating at all upon such a question; and he was in despair before complicated events which gave nothing for his hands and heart to do.  Stiff endurance seemed to him to be his lesson; and he made a show of having learnt it.

“Were you going out, Robert?”

“I usually make the rounds of the house, to be sure all’s safe.”

His walking about the garden at night was not, then, for the purpose of looking at her window.  Rhoda coloured in all her dark crimson with shame for thinking that it had been so.

“I must decide to-morrow morning.”

“They say, the pillow’s the best counsellor.”

A reply that presumed she would sleep appeared to her as bitterly unfriendly.

“Did father wish it?”

“Not by what he spoke.”

“You suppose he does wish it?”

“Where’s the father who wouldn’t?  Of course, he wishes it.  He’s kind enough, but you may be certain he wishes it.”

“Oh!  Dahlia, Dahlia!” Rhoda moaned, under a rush of new sensations, unfilial, akin to those which her sister had distressed her by speaking shamelessly out.

“Ah! poor soul!” added Robert.

“My darling must be brave:  she must have great courage.  Dahlia cannot be a coward.  I begin to see.”

Rhoda threw up her face, and sat awhile as one who was reading old matters by a fresh light.

“I can’t think,” she said, with a start.  “Have I been dreadfully cruel?  Was I unsisterly?  I have such a horror of some things—­disgrace.  And men are so hard on women; and father—­I felt for him.  And I hated that base man.  It’s his cousin and his name!  I could almost fancy this trial is brought round to me for punishment.”

An ironic devil prompted Robert to say, “You can’t let harm come to your uncle.”

The thing implied was the farthest in his idea of any woman’s possible duty.

“Are you of that opinion?” Rhoda questioned with her eyes, but uttered nothing.

Now, he had spoken almost in the ironical tone.  She should have noted that.  And how could a true-hearted girl suppose him capable of giving such counsel to her whom he loved?  It smote him with horror and anger; but he was much too manly to betray these actual sentiments, and continued to dissemble.  You see, he had not forgiven her for her indifference to him.