When the doctor with a grave face had said that only rest and change of
scene could restore Cousin Louis's health, and when Rosalind understood
that this must mean for her separation from both her dear companions, it
was to the Forest she had turned.

"I'll pretend I am banished like Rosalind in the story," she had said,
leaning against her father's shoulder, as he looked over the proofs of
"The Life of Shakespeare" on which Cousin Louis had worked too hard. "Then
I'll know I am certain to find you sometime."

Her father's arm had drawn her close,--she liked to recall it now, and
how, when she added, "But I wish I had Celia and Touchstone to go with
me," he had answered, "You are certain to find pleasant people in the
Forest of Arden, little girl." And putting aside the proofs, he had talked
to her of her grandmother and the old town of Friendship.

She had been almost a week in Friendship now, and--well, things were not
altogether as she had pictured them. Silver locks and lace caps,
arm-chairs and some sort of fluffy knitting work, had been a part of her
idea of a grandmother, and lo! her own grandmother was erect and slender,
with not a thread of gray in her dark hair, nor a line in her handsome
face.

She was kind--oh, yes, but so sad in her heavy crepe. Aunt Genevieve in
her trailing gowns was charming to behold, but no more company for
Rosalind--at least not much more--than the griffins. Miss Herbert was not
a merry, comfortable person like their own Mrs. Browne at home. The house
was very quiet. The garden was beautiful, but she longed to be outside its
tall iron gates; and she longed--how she longed--for her old companions!