his face, she might have doubted his words. "Be angry, if you will. I expect it, for I know it is too soon to speak. I ought to wait for years, perhaps; but you seemed so happy I dared to hope you had forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" asked Rose, sharply.
"Charlie."
"Ah! you all will insist on believing that I loved him better than I did!" she cried, with both pain and impatience in her voice; for the family delusion tried her very much at times.
"How could we help it, when he was every thing women most admire?" said Mac, not bitterly, but as if he sometimes wondered at their want of insight.
"I do not admire weakness of any sort: I could never love without either confidence or respect. Do me the justice to believe that, for I'm tired of being pitied."
She spoke almost passionately, being more excited by Mac's repressed emotion than she had ever been by Charlie's most touching demonstration, though she did not know why.
"But he loved you so!" began Mac; feeling as if a barrier had suddenly gone down, but not daring to venture in as yet.
"That was the hard part of it! That was why I tried to love him,—why I hoped he would stand fast for my sake, if not for his own; and why I found it so sad sometimes not to be able to help despising him
