archaic outline. Rose's gowns were legion. They were manufactured
by a farmer's daughter across the valley, under her strict and
precise supervision. She was accustomed, as she boldly avowed, to
shut herself up at the beginning of each season of the year for two
days' meditation on the subject. And now, thanks to the spring
warmth, she was entering at last with infinite zest on the results
of her April vigils.

Catherine had surveyed her as she entered the room with a smile,
but a smile not altogether to Rose's taste.

'What, another, Roeschen?' she had said with the slightest lifting
of the eyebrows. 'You never confided that to me. Did you think I
was unworthy of anything so artistic?'

'Not at all,' said Rose calmly, seating herself. 'I thought you
were better employed.'

But a flush flew over her transparent cheek, and she presently threw
an irritated look at Agnes, who had been looking from her to Catherine
with amused eyes.

'I met Mr. Thornburgh and Mr. Elsmere driving from the station,'
Catherine announced presently; 'at least there was a gentleman in
a clerical wideawake with a portmanteau behind, so I imagine it
must have been he.'

'Did he look promising?' inquired Agnes.

'I don't think I noticed,' said Catherine simply, but with a momentary