What would be the result of that night's adventure? Reginald Stanford, good-natured and nonchalant, was yet proud. She had seen his face change in the starlight, as once she had hardly thought it possible that ever-laughing face could change; she had seen it cold and fixed as stone. How would he act towards a lady, plighted to be his wife, and yet who took midnight rambles with another man? Would the engagement be broken off, and would he leave Canada forever in disgust? Or would he, forsaking Kate, turn to Kate's younger sister for love and consolation?
Rose's heart throbbed, and her face grew hot in the solitude of her chamber, at the thought. He would demand an explanation, of course; would it be haughtily refused by that haughty sister, or would the mystery of Mr. Richards be opened for him?
A clock down-stairs struck two. Rose remembered that late watching involved pale cheeks and dull eyes, and got up, said her prayers with sleepy devotion, and went to bed.
The sunlight of another bright March day flooded her room when she awoke from a troubled dream of Mr. Richards. It was only seven o'clock, but she arose, dressed rapidly, and, before eight, opened the dining-room door.
Early as the hour was, the apartment was occupied. Grace sat at one of the windows, braiding elaborately an apron, and Captain Danton stood beside her, looking on. Grace glanced up, her colour heightening at Rose's entrance.
"Good morning, Miss Rose," said her father. "Early to bed and early to rise, eh? When did you take to getting up betimes?"
"Good morning, papa. I didn't feel sleepy, and so thought I would come down."
"What time did you get home last night?"
"I left a little after twelve."
"Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?"