She reclined gracefully on a sofa, with half shut eyes, listening to Kate playing one of Beethoven's "Songs without Words," and seeing--not the long, lamp-lit drawing-room with all its elegant luxuries, or the friends around her, but the bare best room of the old yellow farm-house, and the man lying lonely and ill before the blazing fire.

Doctor Danton sat down beside her and talked to her; but Rose answered at random, and was so absorbed, and silent, and preoccupied, as to puzzle every one.

Her father asked her to sing.

Rose begged to be excused--she could not sing to-night.

Kate looked at her in wonder.
"What is the matter with you, Rose ?" she inquired; "are you ill?
What is it ?" "Nothing," Rose answered, "only I don't feel like talking." And not feeling like it, nobody could make her talk.