April gave place to May, and a veil hung between the lovers,--an intangible,
gossamer-like thing, not to be seen with the naked eye, but, oh! so plainly to
be felt. Rose hid herself thankfully behind it, while Stephen had not courage
to lift a corner. She had twice been seen driving with Claude Merrill--that
Stephen knew; but she had explained that there were errands to be done, that
her grandfather had taken the horse, and that Mr. Merrill's escort had been
both opportune and convenient for these practical reasons. Claude was
everywhere present, the center of attraction, the observed of all observers.
He was irresistible, contagious, almost epidemic. Rose was now gay, now
silent; now affectionate, now distant, now coquettish; in fine, everything
that was capricious, mysterious, agitating, incomprehensible.

One morning Alcestis Crambry went to the post-office for Stephen and brought
him back the newspapers and letters. He had hung about the River Farm so much
that Stephen finally gave him bed and food in exchange for numberless small
errands. Rufus was temporarily confined in a dark room with some strange pain
and trouble in his eyes, and Alcestis proved of use in many ways. He had
always been Rose's slave, and had often brought messages and notes from the
Brier Neighborhood, so that when Stephen saw a folded note among the papers
his heart gave a throb of anticipation.

The note was brief, and when he had glanced through it he said: "This is not
mine, Alcestis; it belongs to Miss Rose. Go straight back and give it to her
as you were told; and another time keep your wits about you, or I'll send you
back to Killick."

Alcestis Crambry's ideas on all subjects were extremely vague. Claude Merrill
had given him a letter for Rose, but his notion was that anything that
belonged to her belonged to Stephen, and the Waterman place was much nearer