Catherine came swiftly across the floor. She had just left her child, and the sweet dignity of motherhood was in her step, her look. She came and threw her arms round the girl.
'Rose, dear, I have settled it all with mamma. The money can be managed, and you shall go to Berlin for the winter when you like.'
She drew herself back a little, still with her arms round Rose's waist, and looked at her smiling, to see how she took it.
Rose had a strange movement of irritation. She drew herself out of Catherine's grasp.
'I don't know that I had settled on Berlin,' she said coldly. 'Very possibly Leipsic would be better.'
Catherine's face fell.
'Whichever you like, dear. I have been thinking about it ever since that day you spoke of it—you remember—and now I have talked it over with mamma. If she can't manage all the expense we will help. Oh, Rose,' and she came nearer again, timidly, her eyes melting, 'I know we haven't understood each other. I have been ignorant, I think, and narrow. But I meant it for the best, dear—I did——'
Her voice failed her, but in her look there seemed to be written the history of all the prayers and yearnings of her youth over the pretty wayward child who had been her joy and torment. Rose could not but meet that look—its nobleness, its humble surrender.
Suddenly two large tears rolled down her cheeks. She dashed them away impatiently.
'I am not a bit well,' she said, as though in irritable excuse both to herself and Catherine. 'I believe I have had a headache for a fortnight.'