Rose Stillwater was very near overdoing her part. She rose early the next morning and came down in the drawing room before any of the family had put in an appearance. She had scarcely seated herself before the bright little sea coal fire that the chilly spring morning rendered very acceptable, if not really necessary, when she heard the heavy, measured footsteps of the master of the house coming down the stairs. Then she rose impulsively as if in a flutter of delight to go and meet him; but checked herself and sat down and waited for him to come in.
"How heavily the old ogre walks! His step would shake the house, if it could be shaken. He comes like the statue of the commander in the opera."
She listened, but his footsteps died away on the soft, deep carpet of the library into which he passed.
"Ah! he does not know that I am down!" she said to herself, complacently, as she settled back in her chair. Cora came in and greeted Rose with ceremonious politeness, having resolved, at length, to treat Mrs. Stillwater as an honored guest, not as a cherished friend or member of the household.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stillwater. I hope you have had a good night's rest and feel refreshed after your journey," she said.
"Ah, good morning, dear love! Yes; thank you, darling, a lovely night's rest, undisturbed by the thoughts of debts and duns and a doubtful future. I slept so deeply and sweetly through the night that I woke quite early this morning. The birds were in full song. You must have millions of birds here! And the subtile, penetrating fragrance of the hyacinths came into the window as soon as I opened it. How I love the early spring flowers that come to us almost through the winter snows and before we have done with fires."
Cora did not reply to this rhapsody. Then Rose inquired:
"Does your grandfather go regularly to look after the works as he used to do?"
"Mr. Rockharrt drives to North End every day," replied Cora.
"Some acute observer has said that 'age is a movable feast.' Age, no more than death, is a respecter of persons or of periods. Men grow old, as they die, at any age. Some grow old at fifty, others not before they are a hundred. I think Mr. Rockharrt belongs to the latter class."