“I am real kind, Rose. Please give me the letter. You know that you are going to do a wicked and foolish thing. Rose, I have always thought you a very angel of purity and propriety. I cannot imagine a man like this touching the hem of your garment. 33 Give me the letter, Rose. Positively, it must not go to him.”
“I want to do right, Yanna.”
“I know you do.”
“But Dick is suffering; and I am sorry for him.”
“We have no right to be sorry for the wicked. The wicked ought to suffer; sympathy for them, or with them, is not blessed. I am so glad to see you crying, Rose. If you sent that letter, it would trouble your soul, as a mote in your eye would torture your sight. In both cases, the trouble would be to wash out with tears. Give me the letter, and I will destroy it.”
Then Rose laid it upon the table, and buried her face in her pillow, sobbing bitterly, “I do like Dick! Right or wrong, I want to see him.”
“I may tear up the letter, Rose? It must be done. Shall I do it?”
“Could you not let Dick call at your house once? Only once?”
“It is not my house. I should have to ask father.”
“Only once, Yanna!”