She adored the girl to such an extent that the adoration fairly pained her.

Rose herself might easily have found this exacting affection, this constant watchfulness, irritating, but she found it sweet.

She could scarcely remember her mother, but the memory had always been as one of lost love.

Now she seemed to have found it again.

She fairly coquetted with this older woman who loved her, and whom she loved, with that charming coquettishness sometimes seen in a daughter towards her mother.