The party of visitors had emigrated to other regions, a couple of days after Frederic Chilton’s departure, with the exception of Rosa Tazewell, who accepted Mabel’s invitation to prolong her sojourn, the more willingly since she “flattered herself she could be of use in the general upheaving of the ancient foundations, and establishment of the new.  If there was one thing she enjoyed above another, it was a tremendous bustle—­a lively revolution.”

She made her boast of personal utility good by installing herself forthwith as Mrs. Sutton’s aid-de-camp, and rendering herself so far indispensable in the work of reconstruction that Mr. Aylett deigned to ask her not to desert her post in his absence.

“Yours is the genius of renovation, Miss Rosa,” the potentate was pleased to say in his handsomest style.  “Do not, I beg of you, forsake my aunt and sister in their need.  Let me feel that I leave one head as the motive-power of the multitudinous hands.”

She agreed, in the same strain, to oblige him—­a decision greeted with satisfaction by the pair in whose behalf he besought her friendly offices.  The versatile invention and deft fingers of the little brunette were welcome to the heavily-taxed housekeeper, as were her gay good-humor and words of cheer and affection to the younger of her companions.  The two girls became more confidential in six days than eighteen years of neigbborly intercourse had sufficed to make them.  Mabel’s innate delicacy and excellent common sense would, in ordinary circumstances, have barred effusiveness upon the theme nearest her heart, but love at nineteen is rarely discreet, even when the persuasives to communicativeness are less powerful than were the sorcery of Rosa’s sympathy and the confessions that paved the way to answering and trustful communicativeness on her friend’s part.

They were having what she called “a good, long, comforting, as well as comfortable chat” over their sewing in Mabel’s chamber on the afternoon of the eighth day of Winston’s absence.  The weather was lovely, with the mellow brightness and balmy airs that make Virginian autumns a joy and glory until November is half spent, and the atmosphere held, at sunset, the warmth and much of the radiance which had set the day—­a perfect gem—­in the heart of the golden month.  Into the eastern windows gazed the full moon, a crimson globe upon the hazy horizon, while Venus lay, large and tremulous, among the dying fires of the west.

“‘Lovers love the western star,’” quoted Rosa, merrily, taking Mabel’s work from her and throwing it upon the bed.  “Come and enjoy the holy hour with me.”

They leaned together upon the window-sill, their young faces tinted by the changeful hues of the sky, both thoughtful and mute, until Rosa broke the silence by a heavy sigh.

“O Mabel, you should be a happy, happy girl; blessed among women.  You can love—­freely and joyously—­and have pride and faith in the one beloved.”