Bewildered, Rose thought: “Have I slept and forgotten it?”
He saw the persistent grieved interrogation of her eyebrows.
“Well!” she sighed resignedly: “I am yours; you know that, Evan.”
But he was a lover, and quarrelled with her sigh.
“It may well make you sad now, Rose.”
“Sad? no, that does not make me sad. No; but my hands are tied. I cannot defend you or justify myself; and induce Mama to stand by us. Oh, Evan! you love me! why can you not open your heart to me entirely, and trust me?”
“More?” cried Evan: “Can I trust you more?” He spoke of the letter: Rose caught his hand.
“I never had it, Evan. You wrote it last night? and all was written in it? I never saw it—but I know all.”
Their eyes fronted. The gates of Rose’s were wide open, and he saw no hurtful beasts or lurking snakes in the happy garden within, but Love, like a fixed star.
“Then you know why I must leave, Rose.”