Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.

“If it be painful to him,” she thought, “to come back here, how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me⁠—he did when he went away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both.” And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.