tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the
flowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn't see him give them to
me in the station.'

The father stared.

'But, Rose, what does all this mean? You--you overwhelm me! Go on, please.
What next?'

'Nothing, father.'

And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she
hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.

Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning,
he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself.
Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter's quarrel with
propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do
more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that
aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It was
by silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the charge
of immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr.
Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulous
but tender parent.

'I am willing to admit, my dear,' said Mr. Whiston one evening, _à propos_
of nothing at all, 'that the falsehood in that young man's letter gave
proof of a certain delicacy.'

'Thank you, father,' replied Rose, very quietly and simply.