"What is the matter with you, Rose?" she inquired; "are you ill? What is it?"
"Nothing," Rose answered, "only I don't feel like talking."
And not feeling like it, nobody could make her talk. She retired early—to live over again in dreams the events of that day, and to think of the blissful morrow.
An hour after breakfast next morning, Eeny met her going out, dressed for her ride, and with a little velvet reticule stuffed full, slung over her arm.
"What have you got in that bag?" asked Eeny, "your dinner? Are you going to a picnic?"
Rose laughed at the idea of a January picnic, and ran off without answering. An hour's brisk gallop brought her to the farm house, and old Jacques came out, bowing and grinning, to take charge of her horse.
"Monsieur was in the parlour—would Mademoiselle walk right into the parlour? Dr. Pillule had been there and seen to Monsieur's ankle. Monsieur was doing very well, only not able to stand up yet."
Rose found Monsieur half asleep before the fire, and looking as handsome as ever in his slumber. He started up at her entrance, holding out both hands.
"Mon ange! I thought you were never coming. I was falling into despair."
"Falling into despair means falling asleep, I presume. Don't let me disturb your dreams."