"Nonsense, Fabian! Mr. Rockharrt is old enough to be my grandfather, and his hair is quite gray."
"If he were old enough to be your great-grandfather, and his hair was quite white, it need make no difference in that respect, my dear. The fires of Mt. Hecla burn beneath eternal snows."
"What rubbish you are talking, Fabian! But—to change the subject—when will my house be ready? I warn you that I will not go back to that brick block on Main Street in your State capital."
"You should not, Rosebella. Your home is finished and furnished; and a lovelier bower of roses cannot be found out of paradise! It is simply perfection, or it will be when you take possession of it."
"Yes; tell me all about it," whispered the lady, eagerly.
"It is a small, elegant villa, situated in the midst of beautiful grounds in a small, sequestered dell, inclosed with wooded hills rising backward into forest-crowned mountains, and watered by many little springs rising among the rocks and running down to empty into a miniature lake that lies shining before the house. It seems to be in the heart of the Cumberlands, in the depth of solitude, yet it is not fifteen minutes' walk by a forest footpath to the railway station at North End."
"What shall we name this little Eden?"
"Rose Bower, and the locality Rose Valley."
"And when may I take possession?"
"Whenever you please. All is prepared and waiting the arrival of Mrs. Stillwater, who has taken the house and engaged the servants through her agent, and who is expected to reside there during the absence of her husband, Captain Stillwater, on long voyages."