“I certainly had not anticipated such a pleasure. I did not know that you were related to Colonel Ashley, or to any one else in this part of the country.”
“Nor am I. Colonel Ashley is Rosalie’s great uncle—her mother’s uncle. Colonel Ashley’s last remaining single daughter was married last year, and Rosalie was invited to take her abdicated place in his household. Physicians recommended the bracing air of the mountains for my delicate girl, and therefore Rosalie has been living here for the last eighteen months—ever since we left Cashmere, in fact. Last winter, I think, was rather too cold for her here on the mountains. I spent the season in Washington, from whence I have just returned; but next winter I intend to take Rose to Louisiana with me, and make an arrangement by which she can spend all her winters in the south.”
“Indeed, mamma, you shall not immolate your happiness upon my ill health. You shall just spend your winters in Washington, where you enjoy life so much, and your summers at the watering-places, where you meet again your gay and brilliant friends. I shall do well enough. You shall visit me in the spring and autumn intervals.”
“Oh, a truce, Rosalie! We shall be set down as a model mother and daughter. I know, for one, selfishness is the mainspring of all my acts. I rather think I like you, child, and prefer to see you well. There! I declare there’s Robert with the horses already. Put on your cloth habit, Rosalie; the morning is really cold; and don’t let him take you far, child; these hearty men have very little instinctive mercy for delicate girls, and he would not imagine he had tired you to death till you had dropped from your horse.”
Rosalie arose, rolled up her work, and left the room, nodding and smiling to a young man who entered as she left. “Mr. Bloomfield,” said the lady, presenting him to Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Bloomfield was a sufficiently pleasing specimen of a well-bred, country beau—moderately tall, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested—with regular features—fresh, ruddy complexion—clear, merry blue eyes—and lips, whose every curve expressed the good humour and benevolence of a kind, contented heart.
“You mustn’t take Rose far, Robert.”
“I will take her only to mother’s.”
“And you sha’n’t teaze her with any more nonsense! I can’t put up with that, you know.”
Robert Bloomfield blushed violently, smiled till all his regular white teeth shone, and was stammering out a blundering deprecation, when, to his great relief, Rosalie appeared, attired for the ride. The young man arose, Mrs. Vivian surveyed Rose, to be sure she was well defended from the cold, and finally yielded her in charge of her escort, who bowed and took her out.
Mrs. Vivian and Mark looked at them through the window, saw him place her in the saddle with more than polite attention—with a careful and tender solicitude that made her smile. When they had ridden off she turned to Mark, and said—