But as for her, she preferred not to dash her head against stone walls.
'Well, then, if you won't say them to Catherine, say them to mamma,' she suggested presently, but half ironically.
'Mamma is no good,' cried Rose angrily; 'why do you bring her in?
Catherine would talk her round in ten minutes.' Long after everyone else in Burwood, even the chafing, excited Rose, was asleep, Catherine in her dimly lighted room, where the stormy northwest wind beat noisily against her window, was sitting in a low chair, her head leaning against her bed, her little well-worn Testament open on her knee.

But she was not reading.

Her eyes were shut; one hand hung down beside her, and tears were raining fast and silently over her cheeks.

It was the stillest, most restrained weeping.

She hardly knew why she wept, she only knew that there was something within her which must have its way.