“I like this one,” she said. “It’s where you get the view between the two copper beeches. But Rose?” she went on. “I must just peep at her before I sleep.”
I advised against it. “To-morrow,” I said. “When you’re not so tired.”
No, now, or she could not rest.
I pointed out Rose’s door and she tiptoed in. In a moment she was on the landing again.
“It’s empty!” she exclaimed. “The bed is untouched.”
I tried to reassure her.
“But where is she? This is terrible,” she repeated. “We must find her.”
I told her not to be alarmed. Rose was probably walking off her disturbance of mind. The sudden appearance of her mother must, I know, have given her too much to think of, and she was doing what she often did in moments of high tension—she was fighting her perplexities under the open sky.
“Ah!” said Rose. “It would have been better for me not to have come back.”
“Don’t say so,” I replied. “Go to your room now. I’ll wait for Rose—perhaps I’ll go and look for her, but I don’t think that is necessary; these are safe parts. She is probably in the garden.”