It will be found that good young ladies, while of course they have all the innocence of the dove, do display upon emergencies a considerable share of the wisdom of the serpent. And on this same mother wit and wisdom, Rose called internally, when that day, about eleven o’clock, she was summoned to the library, to give Harry his audience.
Truth to say, she was in a state of excited womanhood vastly becoming to her general appearance, and entered the library with flushed cheeks and head erect, like one prepared to stand for herself and for her sex.
Harry, however, wore a mortified, semi-penitential air, that, on the first glance, rather mollified her. Still, however, she was not sufficiently clement to give him the least assistance in opening the conversation, by the suggestions of any of those nice little oily nothings with which ladies, when in a gracious mood, can smooth the path for a difficult confession.
She sat very quietly, with her hands before her, while Harry walked tumultuously up and down the room.
“Miss Ferguson,” he said at last, abruptly, “I know you are thinking ill of me.”
Miss Ferguson did not reply.
“I had hoped,” he said, “that there had been a little something more than mere acquaintance between us. I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend.”
“I did, Mr. Endicott,” said Rose.
“And you do not now?”
“I cannot say that,” she said, after a pause; “but, Mr. Endicott, if we are friends, you must give me the liberty to speak plainly.”