for giving her rustic lover the chance of impersonating an injured emperor.

It did not simplify the situation to have Mite Shapley come in during the
evening and run upstairs, uninvited, to sit on the foot of her bed and
chatter.

Rose had closed her blinds and lay in the dark, pleading a headache. Mite was
in high feather. She had met Claude Merrill going to the station that
afternoon. He was much too early for the train, which the station agent
reported to be behind time, so he had asked her to take a drive. She did n't
know how it happened, for he looked at his watch every now and then; but,
anyway, they got to laughing and "carrying on," and when they came back to the
station the train had gone. Was n't that the greatest joke of the season? What
did Rose suppose they did next?

Rose did n't know and did n't care; her head ached too badly.

Well, they had driven to Wareham, and Claude had hired a livery team there,
and had been taken into Portland with his trunk, and she had brought Mrs.
Brooks's horse back to Edgewood. Was n't that ridiculous? And had n't she cut
out Rose where she least expected?

Rose was distinctly apathetic, and Mite Shapley departed after a very brief
call, leaving behind her an entirely new train of thought.

If Claude Merrill were so love-blighted that he could only by the greatest
self-control keep from flinging himself into the river, how could he conceal
his sufferings so completely from Mite Shapley,--little shallow-pated,
scheming coquette?