"Well," said Rose, after a blank pause; "stop crying. I didn't know you would take it so seriously, or I shouldn't have asked you. Here's the dress, and I want you to take a great deal of pains with it, Agnes. Take my measure."
Rose said no more to the seamstress on a subject so evidently distressing; but that evening she took Doctor Frank himself to task. She was at the piano, which Kate had vacated for a game of chess with Mr. Stanford, and Grace's brother was devotedly turning her music. Rose looked up at him abruptly, her fingers still rattling off a lively mazurka.
"Doctor Danton, what have you been doing to Agnes Darling?"
"I! Doing! I don't understand!"
"Of course you don't. Where was it you knew her?"
"Who says I knew her?"
"I do. There, no fibs; they won't convince me, and you will only be committing sin for nothing. Was it in Montreal?"
"Really, Miss Rose—"
"That will do. She won't tell, she only cries. You won't tell; you only equivocate. I don't care. I'll find out sooner or later."
"Was she crying?"