Madame had been thinking of that. She knew the one place where Rose could go, and attain her balance in solitude, untroubled by needless questions or explanations. With the feeling of the mother who gives her dead baby's dainty garments to a living child sorely in need, she spoke.
"To my house up in the woods—the little house where love lived, so long ago."
Rose's pale lips quivered for an instant. "What have I to do with love?"
"Go to the house where he lived once, and perhaps you may find out."
"I will—I'll be glad to go. If I could make the next train, could you arrange to have a trunk follow me?"
"Of course. Go on, dear. I know how it happens sometimes, that one can't stay in one place any longer. I suffered from wanderlust until I was almost seventy, and it's a long time since you've been away."
"And you'll promise not to tell anybody?"
"I promise."
While Rose was packing a suit-case, Madame brought her a rusty, old- fashioned key, and a card on which she had written directions for the journey. "I've ordered the carriage," she said, "and I'll drive down with you to see you safely off."
After the packing was completed and while there was still nearly an hour to wait before the carriage would come, Rose locked her door, and, after many failures, achieved her note: