Mrs. Vivian was standing dawdling with a white rose in the piazza. She came forward, with tender care, to meet Rosalie. “Did you ride far—are you tired, love?”
“Not very.”
“But you look pale and wearied.”
“A moment’s rest will restore me, dear mamma.”
“Come in and sit down, while I take off your things,” said the kind little lady, leading her stepchild into the parlour. She sat her down in a deep-cushioned chair, rang the bell, ordered a cordial, and then removed her hat and riding skirt. When she had made Rosalie take a cracker and a little glass of anise-seed cordial, and when the salver was removed, and they were left alone, Rosalie reclining upon the sofa, Valeria sitting in the easy chair near her, the lady inquired—
“Why did not Robert come in?”
“I do not know, unless it was because he did not wish to do so.”
“Have you quarrelled?”
“Quarrelled! Dear mamma, I never had a quarrel with any one in all my life, and never expect to have one with anybody—least of all with Bob.”
“That is no reason you should not have a lover’s quarrel—they befall the most amiable pair. Is it so?”