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Show eantb :liacll ~Slit> 'Rose ant> $1l"er guessed the tumult that lay beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything, more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness, no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but began to wish, vaguely, for something more. He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by. Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier than usual, he called her back. "Rose?" "Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach. "What is it? What can I do for you?" The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed, turning his face away. That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated. "Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!" Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk, escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor. By common consent, they seemed to make excuses to leave the room as the hour of de-sa" et>-ant> :tost parture approached, and she always found it easier when someone was there. Again, when she had made her adieux and had reached the door leading into the hall, Allison called her back. "Yes?" "Couldn't you-just once, you know-for good-night?" he asked, with difficulty. His face made his meaning clear. Rose bent, kissed him tenderly upon the forehead, and quickly left the room. Her heart was beating so hard that she did not know she stumbled upon the threshold, nor did she hear his low: "Thank you-dear." That night she could not sleep. "I can't," she said to herself, miserably; "I can't possibly goon, if- Oh, why should he make it so hard for me!" If the future was to be possible on the lines already laid down, he, too, must keep the impersonal attitude. Yet, none the less, she was conscious of an uplifting joy that would not be put aside, but insistently demanded its right of expression. She did not dare trust herself to see Allison again, and yet she must. She could not fail him now, when he needed her so much, nor could she ask the others to see that they were not left alone. One day might be gained for respite by the plea of a headache, which is woman's friend as often as it is her enemy. 2lnUtttno3oy |