“O, I could never go there any more. I couldn’t indeed, after that dreadful interview!” said Rosa.
“Then where are you going, pretty one?”
“Now I come to think of it, I don’t know,” said Rosa. “I have settled nothing at all yet, but my guardian will take care of me. Don’t be uneasy, dear. I shall be sure to be somewhere.”
(It did seem likely.)
“And I shall hear of my Rosebud from Mr. Tartar?” inquired Helena.
“Yes, I suppose so; from—” Rosa looked back again in a flutter, instead of supplying the name. “But tell me one thing before we part, dearest Helena. Tell me—that you are sure, sure, sure, I couldn’t help it.”
“Help it, love?”
“Help making him malicious and revengeful. I couldn’t hold any terms with him, could I?”
“You know how I love you, darling,” answered Helena, with indignation; “but I would sooner see you dead at his wicked feet.”
“That’s a great comfort to me! And you will tell your poor brother so, won’t you? And you will give him my remembrance and my sympathy? And you will ask him not to hate me?”
With a mournful shake of the head, as if that would be quite a superfluous entreaty, Helena lovingly kissed her two hands to her friend, and her friend’s two hands were kissed to her; and then she saw a third hand (a brown one) appear among the flowers and leaves, and help her friend out of sight.