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 of rebuke or complaint, nor alluded to it in any way. Rosalind did not meet him until dinner, when she colored deeply as his eye sought her's, though with out the least suspicion that he knew what had transpired. She felt guilty of base ingratitude in thus wounding the feelings of his dearest friend. A powerful reaction took place when she returned to her chamber that morning, and was brought into close communion with her inner self, the secret sanctuary where all her acts and motives were laid bare to the probing finger of conscience. The proved author of all her misery, although at first disposed to cast the blame on Aunt Polly, a very common trait in our faulty humanity, she could frame no excuse to justify her in a breach of courtesy which should have been extended to a stranger, to say nothing of his intimate friendship in the family and the uniform kindness with which he had always treated her. Had she been educated into the belief of total depravity no more convincing proof of it's truth would have been needed than her own self-condemnation at that moment. Was there ever a person so ungrateful, so unkind, so utterly unworthy of the tenderness and devotion that had always been lavished upon her?

The days rolled on, bringing with them many unpleasant reminiscences of the past, one of which was the little white-footed kitten. She had always enjoyed a special privilege which she was unwilling to yield—that of climbing on Rosalind's shoulders to play with her curls, and when tired, to pat her cheek with her paw as a signal to take her in her lap