her blossoming brier bushes, the river running at her feet, dark pine trees
behind her graceful head, sounded depths and touched heights of harmony
forever beyond the reach of the modish Miss Dix, but she was out of her
element and suffered accordingly.

Rose had gone to walk with Claude one evening when she first arrived. He had
shown her the State House and the Park Street Church, and sat with her on one
of the benches in the Common until nearly ten. She knew that Mrs. Brooks had
told her nephew of the broken engagement, but he made no reference to the
matter, save to congratulate her that she was rid of a man who was so clumsy,
so dull and behind the times, as Stephen Waterman, saying that he had always
marveled she could engage herself to anybody who could insult her by offering
her a turquoise ring.

Claude was very interesting that evening, Rose thought, but rather gloomy and
unlike his former self. He referred to his grave responsibilities, to the
frail health of Maude Arthurlena, and to the vicissitudes of business. He
vaguely intimated that his daily life in the store was not so pleasant as it
had been formerly; that there were "those" (he would speak no more plainly)
who embarrassed him with undesired attentions, "those" who, without the
smallest shadow of right, vexed him with petty jealousies.

Rose dared not ask questions on so delicate a topic, but she remembered in a
flash Miss Dix's heavy eyebrows, snapping eyes, and high color. Claude seemed
very happy that Rose had come to Boston, though he was surprised, knowing what
a trial his aunt must be, now that she was so helpless. It was unfortunate,
also, that Rose could not go on excursions without leaving his aunt alone, or
he should have been glad to offer his escort. He pressed her hand when he left
her at her door, telling her she could never realize what a comfort her
friendship was to him; could never imagine how thankful he was that she had