me, Rosamond--for you even to love him, is a most wicked thing--a
dreadful sin in the sight of Heaven, and you must forget him--will
you?"

Rosamond had laid her face upon the bed and was sobbing hysterically,
for Miss Porter's manner frightened her even more than her words. In
reply to the question, "Will you?" she at last answered passionately,
_"No, I won't!_ It is _not_ wicked to love him as I do. I am his
_sister_, nothing more."

Miss Porter's lip curled scornfully a moment, and then she said, "Let
me tell you the story of _my_ life, shall I?"

No answer from Rosamond, and the lady continued: "When I was about
your age I fancied I loved a man who, I think, must have been much
like Mr. Browning--"

"No, no," interrupted Rosamond. "Nobody was ever like Mr. Browning. I
don't want to hear the Miss Porter, but if I mistake not she will go
home story. I don't want anything but to go home."

I will not tell her until it's more necessary, thought much sooner
than she anticipates. And she was right, for on that very night Mr.
Browning sat reading a letter which ran as follows:

"I find myself so happy with _your little_ Rosamond, who chances to be
my room-mate, that I have postponed my visit to Riverside, until some
future time, which, if you continue neutral, may never come--but the
moment you trespass on forbidden ground, or breathe a word of love
into _her_ ear--beware! She loves _you_. I have found that out, and I