Chapter: Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came.  If the village had been
beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its
richness.  The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the
earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and
stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted
open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant
shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine,
which lay stretched beyond.  The earth had donned her mantle of
brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad.  It was the
prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.

Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same
cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates.  Oliver had long since
grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in
his warm feelings of a great many people.  He was still the same
gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and
suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every
slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him.

One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was
customary with them:  for the day had been unusually warm, and there
was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was
unusually refreshing.  Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had
walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their
ordinary bounds.  Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly
home.  The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down
to the piano as usual.  After running abstractedly over the keys for a
few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played
it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.

'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady.

Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words
had roused her from some painful thoughts.

'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over
her.  'What is this?  In tears!  My dear child, what distresses you?'

'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady.  'I don't know what
it is; I can't describe it; but I feel--'

'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie.

'No, no!  Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly
chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better
presently.  Close the window, pray!'

Oliver hastened to comply with her request.  The young lady, making an
effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune;
but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with
her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she
was now unable to repress.

'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never
saw you so before.'

'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed
I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.'

She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the
very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of
her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had
lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an
anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn
before.  Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush:  and
a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye.  Again this disappeared,
like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly
pale.

Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was
alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that
she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and
they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to
retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in
better health:  assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in
the morning, quite well.

'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the
matter?  She don't look well to-night, but--'

The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in
a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length,
she said, in a trembling voice:

'I hope not, Oliver.  I have been very happy with her for some years:
too happy, perhaps.  It may be time that I should meet with some
misfortune; but I hope it is not this.'

'What?' inquired Oliver.

'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has
so long been my comfort and happiness.'

'Oh!  God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily.

'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands.

'Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two
hours ago, she was quite well.'

'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am
sure.  My dear, dear Rose!  Oh, what shall I do without her!'

She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own
emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that,
for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.

'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into
his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how
young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all
about her.  I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your sake, who
are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she
makes so happy; she will not die.  Heaven will never let her die so
young.'

'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think
like a child, poor boy.  But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding.  I
had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned,
for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the
agony of separation from the objects of our love.  I have seen enough,
too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared
to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow;
for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there
is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy.
God's will be done!  I love her; and He knows how well!'

Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she
checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself
up as she spoke, became composed and firm.  He was still more
astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the
care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and
collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her,
steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully.  But he
was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under
trying circumstances.  How should he, when their possessors so seldom
know themselves?

An anxious night ensued.  When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions
were but too well verified.  Rose was in the first stage of a high and
dangerous fever.

'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said
Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into
his face; 'this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to
Mr. Losberne.  It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more
than four miles off, by the footpath across the field:  and thence
dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The
people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to
see it done, I know.'

Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.

'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but
whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I
scarcely know.  I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.'

'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute
his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.

'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver
glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire,
at some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out.

'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.

'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back.  'I will wait until
to-morrow.'

With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off,
without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.

Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which
sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either
side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers
were busy at their work:  nor did he stop once, save now and then, for
a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and
covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.

Here he paused, and looked about for the inn.  There were a white bank,
and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was
a large house, with all the wood about it painted green:  before which
was the sign of 'The George.'  To this he hastened, as soon as it
caught his eye.

He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after
hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing
all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall
gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots
with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking
his teeth with a silver toothpick.

This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out
the bill:  which took a long time making out:  and after it was ready,
and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which
took up ten good minutes more.  Meanwhile Oliver was in such a
desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could
have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to
the next stage.  At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having
been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy
delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven
paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along
the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.

As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and
that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a
somewhat lighter heart.  He was turning out of the gateway when he
accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at
that moment coming out of the inn door.

'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly
recoiling.  'What the devil's this?'

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get
home, and didn't see you were coming.'

'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large
dark eyes.  'Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start
up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!'

'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild
look.  'I hope I have not hurt you!'

'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his
clenched teeth; 'if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might
have been free of you in a night.  Curses on your head, and black death
on your heart, you imp!  What are you doing here?'

The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He
advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at
him, but fell violently on the ground:  writhing and foaming, in a fit.

Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he
supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help.  Having
seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards,
running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time:  and recalling
with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary
behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.

The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for
when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and
to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.

Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was
delirious.  A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in
constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he
had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a
most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would be little short of
a miracle, if she recovered.'

How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out,
with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest
sound from the sick chamber!  How often did a tremble shake his frame,
and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling
of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had
even then occurred!  And what had been the fervency of all the prayers
he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the
agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the
gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge!

Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by
while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance!  Oh!
the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat
violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they
conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to
relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to
alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of
our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what
reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time,
allay them!

Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke
in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time;
women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for
hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the
garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and
shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay
stretched inside.  Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.  'It is
hard,' said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so
much beloved; but there is very little hope.'

Another morning.  The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked
upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom
about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy,
surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting
fast.  Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one
of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.

There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and
mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the
summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering
overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy
raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively
occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could
surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that
graves were for cold and cheerless winter:  not for sunlight and
fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and
shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in
their ghastly folds.

A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts.
Another!  Again!  It was tolling for the funeral service.  A group of
humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse
was young.  They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother--a
mother once--among the weeping train.  But the sun shone brightly, and
the birds sang on.

Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received
from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that
he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was.  He
had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of
thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred
little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have
been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been.  We need
be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to
some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so
little done--of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might
have been repaired!  There is no remorse so deep as that which is
unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this,
in time.

When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour.
Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside
of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven
her away.  He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which
she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell,
and die.

They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours.  The untasted meal
was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were
elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at
length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his
departure.  Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching
footstep.  They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne
entered.

'What of Rose?' cried the old lady.  'Tell me at once!  I can bear it;
anything but suspense!  Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!'

'You must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm,
my dear ma'am, pray.'

'Let me go, in God's name!  My dear child!  She is dead! She is dying!'

'No!' cried the doctor, passionately.  'As He is good and merciful, she
will live to bless us all, for years to come.'

The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but
the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her
first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were
extended to receive her.



It was almost too much happiness to bear.  Oliver felt stunned and
stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak,
or rest.  He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had
passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of
tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a
full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost
insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward:  laden with
flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of
the sick chamber.  As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind
him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace.  Looking
round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as
the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning
against a gate until it should have passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap,
whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that
he could not identify the person.  In another second or two, the
nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice
bellowed to the driver to stop:  which he did, as soon as he could pull
up his horses.  Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same
voice called Oliver by his name.

'Here!' cried the voice.  'Oliver, what's the news?  Miss Rose! Master
O-li-ver!'

'Is it you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply,
when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the
other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?'

'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.

'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman.  'You are sure?'

'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver.  'The change took place only a few hours
ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.'

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,
leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

'You are quite certain?  There is no possibility of any mistake on your
part, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice.
'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.'

'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver.  'Indeed you may
believe me.  Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us
all for many years to come.  I heard him say so.'

The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the
beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away,
and remained silent, for some minutes.  Oliver thought he heard him
sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh
remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so stood
apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting
on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and
wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with
white spots.  That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was
abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the
young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.

'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,'
said he.  'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time
before I see her.  You can say I am coming.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles:  giving a final polish to
his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave
the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you.  It
wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should
never have any more authority with them if they did.'

'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let
him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us.
Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering,
or we shall be taken for madmen.'

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and
pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape,
which he took out of the chaise.  This done, the postboy drove off;
Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much
interest and curiosity at the new comer.  He seemed about
five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his
countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and
prepossessing.  Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,
he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have
had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not
already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached
the cottage.  The meeting did not take place without great emotion on
both sides.

'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?'

'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep
back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'

'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring
which so nearly happened?  If Rose had--I cannot utter that word
now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever
have forgiven yourself!  How could I ever have know happiness again!'

'If that _had_ been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear your
happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival
here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little
import.'

'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or
why should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you must
know it!'

'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can
offer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of
her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and
lasting.  If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed
behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my
task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many
struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the
strict line of duty.'

'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry.  'Do you still suppose that I am
a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own
soul?'

'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his
shoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and
that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more
fleeting.  Above all, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her
son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a
wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no
fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and
upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the
world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against
him:  he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day
repent of the connection he formed in early life.  And she may have the
pain of knowing that he does so.'

'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish
brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe,
who acted thus.'

'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.

'And ever will!' said the young man.  'The mental agony I have
suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of
a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I
have lightly formed.  On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as
firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman.  I have no thought, no
view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great
stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to
the wind.  Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not
disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.'

'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and
sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we
have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.'

'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry.  'You will not press
these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle
in my way?'

'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you consider--'

'I _have_ considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have
considered, years and years.  I have considered, ever since I have been
capable of serious reflection.  My feelings remain unchanged, as they
ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them
vent, which can be productive of no earthly good?  No!  Before I leave
this place, Rose shall hear me.'

'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie.

'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she
will hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man.

'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'

'How then?' urged the young man.  'She has formed no other attachment?'

'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a
hold on her affections already.  What I would say,' resumed the old
lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this.  Before you
stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried
to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child,
on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her
doubtful birth may have on her decision:  devoted as she is to us, with
all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of
self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her
characteristic.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie.  'I must go back
to her.  God bless you!'

'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly.

'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.'

'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry.

'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie.

'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how
I long to see her.  You will not refuse to do this, mother?'

'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.'  And pressing her son's
hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment
while this hurried conversation was proceeding.  The former now held
out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged
between them.  The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious
questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's
situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as
Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of
which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened
with greedy ears.

'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the
doctor, when he had concluded.

'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said
the doctor.

'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that
sort of thing admirably.  Pray, how is Brittles?'

'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone
of patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.'

'That's well,' said the doctor.  'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr.
Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so
hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small
commission in your favour.  Just step into this corner a moment, will
you?'

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder,
and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on
the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with
steps of unusual stateliness.  The subject matter of this conference
was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily
enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and
having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty,
which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in
consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that
attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of
five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit.  At this, the two
women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.
Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No, no'; and that if they
observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank
them to tell him so.  And then he made a great many other remarks, no
less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal
favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the
purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for
the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful
Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the
worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great
variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of
small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had
ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident
satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and
made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy.
So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they
could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light
and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and
suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual
occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many
days.  The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places;
and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more
gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had
seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over
every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.  The dew
seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle
among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue
and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own
thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects.  Men
who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and
gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from
their own jaundiced eyes and hearts.  The real hues are delicate, and
need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,
that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie,
after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was
seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in
their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind.  If Oliver
were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be
found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and
brought home the fairest that blossomed.  The window of the young
lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer
air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always
stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch,
which was made up with great care, every morning.  Oliver could not
help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away,
although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help
observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably
cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most
expressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk.  Pending these
observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady
had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now
and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself,
with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old
gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even
himself.  It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was
greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his
books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house.  It was quite
a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of
jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the
place with their delicious perfume.  It looked into a garden, whence a
wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine
meadow-land and wood.  There was no other dwelling near, in that
direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning
to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his
books.  He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had
been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is
no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say,
that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it
holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things
about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure.  So far as an
overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter
inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called
sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is
going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are
really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate
themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and
imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost
matter of impossibility to separate the two.  Nor is this, the most
striking phenomenon incidental to such a state.  It is an undoubted
fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead,
yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before
us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent
presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when
we closed our eyes:  and of whose vicinity we have had no waking
consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that
his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was
stirring among the creeping plants outside.  And yet he was asleep.
Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he
thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again.
There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at
him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat
beside him.

'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure
enough.  Come away.'

'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you?
If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and
he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to
point him out.  If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across
his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that
he lay buried there?'

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver
awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven!  what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his
heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!
There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could
have almost touched him before he started back:  with his eyes peering
into the room, and meeting his:  there stood the Jew!  And beside him,
white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man
who had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they
were gone.  But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look
was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply
carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed
for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called
loudly for help.



When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to
the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated,
pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely
able to articulate the words, 'The Jew! the Jew!'

Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry
Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard
Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once.

'What direction did he take?' he asked, catching up a heavy stick which
was standing in a corner.

'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; 'I
missed them in an instant.'

'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry.  'Follow!  And keep as near
me, as you can.' So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off
with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the
others to keep near him.

Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the
course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and
just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking
himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to
possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting
all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.

On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader,
striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to
search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time
for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to
communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so
vigorous a pursuit.

The search was all in vain.  There were not even the traces of recent
footsteps, to be seen.  They stood now, on the summit of a little hill,
commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles.
There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain
that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must
have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could
have accomplished in so short a time.  A thick wood skirted the
meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that
covert for the same reason.

'It must have been a dream, Oliver,' said Harry Maylie.

'Oh no, indeed, sir,' replied Oliver, shuddering at the very
recollection of the old wretch's countenance; 'I saw him too plainly
for that.  I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.'

'Who was the other?' inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.

'The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the
inn,' said Oliver.  'We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I
could swear to him.'

'They took this way?' demanded Harry:  'are you sure?'

'As I am that the men were at the window,' replied Oliver, pointing
down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from
the meadow.  'The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew,
running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.'

The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and
looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the
accuracy of what he said.  Still, in no direction were there any
appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight.  The grass was
long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had
crushed it.  The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but
in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the
slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the
ground for hours before.

'This is strange!' said Harry.

'Strange?' echoed the doctor.  'Blathers and Duff, themselves, could
make nothing of it.'

Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did
not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further
prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance.
Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village,
furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance
and dress of the strangers.  Of these, the Jew was, at all events,
sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen
drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any
intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.

On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but
with no better success.  On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie
repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something
of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless.  After a few
days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when
wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.

Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering.  She had left her room: was
able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into
the hearts of all.

But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little
circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more
heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon
some there:  even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to
remark.  Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a
long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon
her face.  After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to
Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that
something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady,
and of somebody else besides.

At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour,
Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to
speak with her for a few moments.

'A few--a very few--will suffice, Rose,' said the young man, drawing
his chair towards her.  'What I shall have to say, has already
presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are
not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.'

Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might
have been the effect of her recent illness.  She merely bowed; and
bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to
proceed.

'I--I--ought to have left here, before,' said Harry.

'You should, indeed,' replied Rose.  'Forgive me for saying so, but I
wish you had.'

'I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all
apprehensions,' said the young man; 'the fear of losing the one dear
being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed.  You had been dying;
trembling between earth and heaven.  We know that when the young, the
beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits
insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know,
Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade
in blooming.'

There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were
spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and
glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as
though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred
naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.

'A creature,' continued the young man, passionately, 'a creature as
fair and innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered
between life and death.  Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to
which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to
the sorrow and calamity of this!  Rose, Rose, to know that you were
passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts
upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who
linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that
you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and
the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all
these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved
you--these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine,
by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears,
and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never
know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in
its course.  You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some
drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream
of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a
high and rushing tide.  I have watched you change almost from death, to
life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep
affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has
softened my heart to all mankind.'

'I did not mean that,' said Rose, weeping; 'I only wish you had left
here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to
pursuits well worthy of you.'

'There is no pursuit more worthy of me:  more worthy of the highest
nature that exists:  than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,'
said the young man, taking her hand. 'Rose, my own dear Rose!  For
years--for years--I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and
then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to
share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy
moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment,
and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that
had been sealed between us!  That time has not arrived; but here, with
not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so
long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the
offer.'

'Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.' said Rose, mastering the
emotions by which she was agitated.  'As you believe that I am not
insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.'

'It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?'

'It is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour to forget me; not as
your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply;
but, as the object of your love.  Look into the world; think how many
hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other
passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most
faithful friend you have.'

There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with
one hand, gave free vent to her tears.  Harry still retained the other.

'And your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in a low voice; 'your
reasons for this decision?'

'You have a right to know them,' rejoined Rose.  'You can say nothing
to alter my resolution.  It is a duty that I must perform.  I owe it,
alike to others, and to myself.'

'To yourself?'

'Yes, Harry.  I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless,
girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason
to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and
fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects.  I owe it to
you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your
generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.'

'If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty--' Harry began.

'They do not,' replied Rose, colouring deeply.

'Then you return my love?' said Harry.  'Say but that, dear Rose; say
but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!'

'If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,'
rejoined Rose, 'I could have--'

'Have received this declaration very differently?' said Harry. 'Do not
conceal that from me, at least, Rose.'

'I could,' said Rose.  'Stay!' she added, disengaging her hand, 'why
should we prolong this painful interview?  Most painful to me, and yet
productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be
happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which
I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me
with new fortitude and firmness.  Farewell, Harry!  As we have met
to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which
this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined;
and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can
call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper
you!'

'Another word, Rose,' said Harry.  'Your reason in your own words.
From your own lips, let me hear it!'

'The prospect before you,' answered Rose, firmly, 'is a brilliant one.
All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can
help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections
are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the
mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of
her who has so well supplied that mother's place.  In a word,' said the
young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, 'there
is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads.  I
will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest
alone on me.'

'One word more, Rose.  Dearest Rose! one more!' cried Harry, throwing
himself before her.  'If I had been less--less fortunate, the world
would call it--if some obscure and peaceful life had been my
destiny--if I had been poor, sick, helpless--would you have turned from
me then?  Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given
this scruple birth?'

'Do not press me to reply,' answered Rose.  'The question does not
arise, and never will.  It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.'

'If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,' retorted Harry,
'it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the
path before me.  It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the
utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else.
Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name
of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer
me this one question!'

'Then, if your lot had been differently cast,' rejoined Rose; 'if you
had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been
a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement,
and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I
should have been spared this trial.  I have every reason to be happy,
very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.'

Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded
into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears
with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they
relieved her.

'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said
Rose, extending her hand.  'I must leave you now, indeed.'

'I ask one promise,' said Harry.  'Once, and only once more,--say
within a year, but it may be much sooner,--I may speak to you again on
this subject, for the last time.'

'Not to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a
melancholy smile; 'it will be useless.'

'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will--finally repeat
it!  I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may
possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not
seek, by word or act, to change it.'

'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and
by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.'

She extended her hand again.  But the young man caught her to his
bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from
the room.



'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning;
eh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the
breakfast-table.  'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two
half-hours together!'

'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry,
colouring without any perceptible reason.

'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though
I confess I don't think I shall.  But yesterday morning you had made up
your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your
mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce
that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I
go, on your road to London.  And at night, you urge me, with great
mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of
which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when
he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all
kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?'

'I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and
Mr. Maylie went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver.

'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me
when you return.  But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication
from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be
gone?'

'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume,
you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at
all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it
likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate
attendance among them.'

'Well,' said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow.  But of course they
will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and
these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political
life.  There's something in that.  Good training is always desirable,
whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.'

Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue
by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a
little; but he contented himself with saying, 'We shall see,' and
pursued the subject no farther.  The post-chaise drove up to the door
shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good
doctor bustled out, to see it packed.

'Oliver,' said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'let me speak a word with
you.'

Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;
much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which
his whole behaviour displayed.

'You can write well now?' said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.

'I hope so, sir,' replied Oliver.

'I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would
write to me--say once a fort-night:  every alternate Monday: to the
General Post Office in London.  Will you?'

'Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' exclaimed Oliver,
greatly delighted with the commission.

'I should like to know how--how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said
the young man; 'and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks
you take, and what you talk about, and whether she--they, I mean--seem
happy and quite well. You understand me?'

'Oh! quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver.

'I would rather you did not mention it to them,' said Harry, hurrying
over his words; 'because it might make my mother anxious to write to me
oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret
between you and me; and mind you tell me everything!  I depend upon
you.'

Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance,
faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications.
Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and
protection.

The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should
be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants
were in the garden, looking on.  Harry cast one slight glance at the
latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.

'Drive on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop!  Nothing short of
flying will keep pace with me, to-day.'

'Halloa!' cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great
hurry, and shouting to the postillion; 'something very short of flying
will keep pace with _me_.  Do you hear?'

Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible,
and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound
its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly
disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects,
or the intricacies of the way, permitted.  It was not until even the
dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.

And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot
where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away;
for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when
Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.

'He seems in high spirits and happy,' she said, at length. 'I feared
for a time he might be otherwise.  I was mistaken.  I am very, very
glad.'

Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed
down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in
the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.

 One warm evening, after Oliver and the ladies have returned from their customary stroll, Rose is overcome by a fit of uncontrollable weeping. She makes a courageous effort to compose herself but is soon forced to admit: "I fear I am ill, aunt." Yet as the girl goes to her room, she seems to have rallied somewhat. Nevertheless, Mrs. Maylie feels certain that her niece's condition is serious and will become worse. The worried old lady tries to control herself. The next morning, Rose is in the grip of a dangerous fever. Mrs. Maylie writes two letters. One, summoning Mr. Losberne from Chertsey, is to be sent at once, but she decides to wait before sending the other, addressed to "Harry Maylie, Esquire." Oliver takes the Losberne letter and speeds four miles through the fields to the nearest village. At the inn, the message to the doctor is entrusted to a special express rider. As Oliver hurries away, he accidentally collides with a tall man wearing a cloak. The stranger snarls at the boy and then falls down in convulsions. Oliver calls help, and the man is carried into the inn. The distress at the cottage of Rose's illness drives the incident from Oliver's mind. Rose is much worse, and the local practitioner has given her up. Before midnight, the girl becomes delirious. Oliver spends a night filled with suspense and terror. The following day is a time of anxious waiting. Mr. Losberne comes but can only commiserate: "It is hard; so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." The next day, Oliver sits in the local graveyard and prays for Rose. It seems incredible that one so young and good should die while on all sides vibrant life thrives under the sunny sky. But the paradox is confirmed by the sound of the church bell tolling for the funeral of some other young person. The sorrowing boy returns home and joins Mrs. Maylie's vigil in the parlor. The patient is in a deep sleep that will end either in death or recovery. Hours later, Mr. Losberne enters to announce that Rose has survived the crisis and will live. Oliver goes outdoors and relieves the strain of anxiety with a flood of tears. A post-chaise comes up the road at full speed. The horses are stopped and Giles bellows out of the window at Oliver for news. The boy convinces him and the other passenger, Mrs. Maylie's son Harry, that Rose is out of danger. As he greets his mother, Harry reproaches her for not writing sooner, for the old lady had not sent her letter to him until Mr. Losberne had stated his opinion. Harry now tells his mother about his deep and unshakable love for Rose. Mrs. Maylie responds by expressing her belief that the most devoted attachment is vulnerable if the wife, even though innocent, is open to scandal. This has no effect on Harry, who brushes all argument aside and vows that he will declare his feelings to Rose within two days. Now the old lady reminds him that Rose may refuse him on account of "her doubtful birth." Mr. Losberne teases Giles a bit in his characteristic manner and then takes the butler aside to confide to him that Mrs. Maylie had deposited twenty-five pounds in a bank for him in recognition of his brave conduct on the night the robbery was foiled. The entire household pass the evening in a spirit of good-natured gratitude. The next day, Oliver finds the world once again happy and colorful. He is no longer alone on his morning excursions but is accompanied by Harry, who energetically gathers flowers for Rose. Being left more to himself now, Oliver applies himself diligently to his studies. One evening, after an active day, he begins to doze over his book. In a half-awake state, he dreams that he is in Fagin's house again. In the dream, Fagin points at Oliver, seeming to say to another man with him, "It is he, sure enough." The other man agrees words of fierce hatred. Oliver awakens in a fright. There at the ground-floor window stand Fagin and the man Oliver had encountered in the inn yard. Mutual recognition is instantaneous. The sinister pair vanish as Oliver calls for help. Harry Maylie responds to Oliver's alarm and crosses the hedge to run after the intruders. Giles and Mr. Losberne join the chase. But the fugitives cannot be seen, and there is no trace of their movements. Darkness forces abandonment of the search. Giles makes a futile attempt in the village to pick up clues about the men. The efforts are repeated the next day, still without results, and interest in the incident wanes. Rose quickly regains her health and resumes her place in the family life. Still there is a quality of tension in the atmosphere. Harry and his mother have long private sessions. Rose frequently appears to have been crying, and her uneasiness increases after Mr. Losberne sets the day for his departure. Finally, Harry Maylie brings matters into the open and declares his love to Rose in a long, impassioned oration. Her first reaction is to wish that he'd left sooner to find some work worthy of his abilities. Harry tells her that all he has ever wanted was to win her love. Rose is firm; she tells Harry that he must cease to think of her as an object of love. When pressed for reasons, Rose raises the objections of her unsuitability to be the wife of a man who aspires to rise in the world. She admits that her decision comes from the mind and not from the heart. Rose also concedes that if Harry were not so far above her in station and prospects, things would be different. Before they part, he convinces Rose to allow him to propose to her again within a year's time or less. While Mr. Losberne, Harry Maylie, and Oliver are at breakfast, the doctor chides Harry for repeatedly changing his plans. The young man has at last made up his mind to leave with the doctor without seeing the ladies that morning. Harry has private words with Oliver. The young gentleman says that he will not be at home for a while and asks Oliver to write to him about every two weeks, addressed to the general post office in London. Harry wants to know how his mother and Rose are, but he wishes to keep his location secret. The boy proudly accepts the trust. Harry glances at Rose's window, gets into the carriage, and moves off with great speed. Rose watches from behind the curtains, weeping.

