'
Rose laughed. 'But we don't want it to be different.'
'You won't be happy,' Henrietta wailed.
'You, at least,' Rose said sternly, 'have done nothing to make me so.'
Henrietta stilled her sobbing. It was quite true. She had taken
everything--Aunt Rose's money, Aunt Rose's love, her wonderful
forbearance and the love of Charles.
'I don't know what to do,' she cried.
'Come into the drawing-room and we'll talk about it.'
But they did not talk. Rose played the piano in the candlelight for a
little while before she slipped out of the room. Henrietta sat on the
little stool without even the fire to keep her company. She was too
dazed to think. She did not understand why Aunt Rose should choose to
marry Francis Sales and she gave it up, but loneliness stretched
before her like a long, hard road.
If only Charles would come! He always came when he was wanted. A
memory reached her weary mind. This was 'the day after to-morrow,' and
Aunt Rose expected him. She leapt up and examined herself in the
mirror. She was one of those lucky people who can cry and leave no
trace; colour had sprung into her cheeks, but it faded quickly. She
had waited for him before and he had not come, and she was tired of
waiting. She sank into Aunt Caroline's chair and shut her eyes; she
almost slept. She was on the verge of dreams when the bell jangled
harshly. She did not move. She sat in an agony of fear that this would
not be Charles; but the door opened and he entered.
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