Entering the little room from the hall, she beheld Mr.
Stanford asleep, his head on his arm, his handsome face as perfect as something carved in marble, in its deep repose.
Rose stood still--any one might have stood and looked, and admired that picture, but not as she admired.

Rose was in love with him--hopelessly, you know, therefore the more deeply.

All the love that pride had tried, and tried in vain, to crush, rose in desperation stronger than ever within her.

If he had not been her sister's betrothed, who could say what might not have been?
If that sister was one degree less beautiful and accomplished, who could say what still might be?
She had been such a spoiled child all her life, getting whatever she wanted for the asking, that it was very hard she should be refused now the highest boon she had ever craved--Mr.Reginald Stanford.
Did some mesmeric rapport tell him in his sleep she was there?
Perhaps so, for without noise, or cause, his eyes opened and fixed on Rose's flushed and troubled face.

She started away with a confused exclamation, but Stanford, stretching out his arm, caught and held her fast.
"Don't run away, Rose," he said, "How long have you been here?
How long have I been asleep ?" "I don't know," said Rose, confusedly: "I came here for a book a moment ago only.