After awhile he got up and went into his library to finish his paper before he went out, and he was still there when Rose came in and began to tend her plants. He noticed that she was very quiet and that she took less pains than usual. He laid down his paper. “Rose, has Allestree finished your picture yet?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied, blushing suddenly; “but he keeps on fussing over it. Perhaps we should send for it.”
“I want to pay for it; I’ll send him a check to-day,” the judge said, opening a drawer and looking absently for his checkbook; “it may not be convenient later.”
Rose set down her pitcher and stood twisting a broken leaf in her fingers. “He’ll never take anything for it, father.”
The judge looked over his spectacles. “We can’t take such a present,” he remarked dryly; “I’m afraid you’ve let Robert fall in love with you, Rose.”
She gave him a quick, pained glance. “I—I hope not!” she said softly.
The old man smiled. “He’s a good boy, Rose; I shouldn’t disapprove except that I can’t spare you—I’m such a selfish old brute.”
“And I can’t leave you!” she retorted with a queer little laugh, tears in her voice; “but I know Robert won’t take any money for it; I—I shouldn’t dare offer it.”
“You needn’t, but I shall,” replied her father calmly; “if he tells me he’s in love with you I shall not be surprised; no one will be any the worse for it, Rose.”
“I should be very sorry,” she said simply.