How can I answer you ?' 'Never mind,' said Rose, moving to the door, wondering why she had spoken at all: but when Juliana sprang forward, and caught her by the dress to stop her, and with a most unwonted outburst of affection, begged of her to tell her all, the wound in Rose's breast began to bleed, and she was glad to speak.
'Juley, do you-can you believe that he wrote that letter which poor Ferdinand was--accused of writing ?' Juliana appeared to muse, and then responded: 'Why should he do such a thing ?' 'O my goodness, what a girl!' Rose interjected.
'Well, then, to please you, Rose, of course I think he is too honourable.' 'You do think so, Juley?
But if he himself confessed it--what then?
You would not believe him, would you ?' 'Oh, then I can't say.

Why should he condemn himself ?' 'But you would know--you would know that he was a man to suffer death rather than be guilty of the smallest baseness.

His birth--what is that!' Rose filliped her fingers: 'But his acts--what he is himself you would be sure of, would you not?
Dear Juley! Oh, for heaven's sake, speak out plainly to me.' A wily look had crept over Juliana's features.
'Certainly,' she said, in a tone that belied it, and drawing Rose to her bosom, the groan she heard there was passing sweet to her.
'He has confessed it to Mama,' sobbed Rose.

'Why did he not come to me first?
He has confessed it--the abominable thing has come out of his own mouth.

He went to her last night...' Juliana patted her shoulders regularly as they heaved.