distance she could not resist looking back, and just as she did so she saw
the young lady fling something from her across the grass, and--it looked
like a rose! Could it be her rose? Rosalind felt her cheeks growing hot.
How very strange! Here was a puzzle, indeed.

Aunt Genevieve had come for them in the carriage, and as they drove home
Rosalind tried to describe the young lady she had seen, saying nothing
about the rose, however.

"It must have been Celia Fair, mamma, don't you think so?" asked
Genevieve.

"Fair was the name on the stone," said Rosalind, adding, "She was pretty."

Miss Whittredge looked at her mother, then as that lady was silent, she
remarked, in her usual languid tone, "I think you may as well know,
Rosalind, that we have nothing to do with the Fairs."

Why did it make any difference to Rosalind? Why did everything seem wrong?
Why did she feel so unhappy in spite of the blue sky and the sweet summer
air?

When they reached home she sat on the garden bench and looked up at the
griffins, and the fancy floated through her mind that it might be
comfortable to be as unfeeling as they.

"O, dear! I am afraid I am getting out of the Forest. What shall I do?
Perhaps the magician could help me;" she clasped her hands at the
thought. Why not go to see him? She knew the way.