It was trying, it was cruel, it was shameful.

Rose cried and scolded in the seclusion of her maiden bower, and hated Mr.Stanford, or said she did; and could have seen her beautiful elder sister in her winding-sheet with all the pleasure in life.
So, this sunny afternoon, Rose was wandering listlessly hither and thither, thinking the ice would soon break upon the fish-pond if this weather lasted, and suicide would be the easiest thing in the world.

She walked dismally round and round it, and wondered what Mr.Stanford would say, and how he would feel when some day, in the cold, sad twilight, they would carry her, white, and lifeless, and dripping before him, one more unfortunate gone to her death! She could see herself--robed in white, her face whiter than her dress, her pretty auburn curls all wet and streaming around her--carried into the desolate house.

She could see Reginald Stanford recoil, turn deadly pale, his whole future happiness blasted at the sight.

She pictured him in his horrible remorse giving up Kate, and becoming a wanderer and a broken-hearted man all the rest of his life.