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 from her thoughts, which was not very easily done. Grace Blanche was a dear friend of theirs and she could not help feeling a deep interest in whatever concerned her welfare. But then to give heed to such senseless talk, coming as it did from one deeply irritated, was the height of absurdity. She knew she ought not for a moment to harbor such an imputation upon the character of Ernest Livingston whether she cared for it or not, and soon found herself struggling against a new current in addition to her other troubles, as unexpected as it was painful. She did not reproach herself for the manner in which she had formerly treated him, but rather approved it as singularly wise, since it showed that she had no particular regard for him, which might be a great advantage to her now. What did she reproach herself for? Nothing, perhaps; but there was a vague restlessness, an undefined feeling of remorse that made her wretched.

The next morning was as delightful as it was three days before, but what a transformation in her. She did not leave her chamber until summoned to breakfast. Instead of the white wrapper she was dressed in a dark print; and her hair, carelessly smoothed over, showed by the somewhat tangled state of her curls that her fingers had neglected their task.

Her mother smiled on observing her, and said, "Well Rosa, what made you dress up so this morning? Are you expecting company?"

She made an attempt to smile at one corner of her mouth, and was silent.

Walter looked at her with mute surprise, secretly