mention of it between us. `Wait till that man comes back,' she said, meaning the Sergeant. `We must speak of it then: we are not obliged to speak of it now.'

After leaving my mistress, I found Penelope waiting for me in my room.

`I wish, father, you would come and speak to Rosanna,' she said. `I am very uneasy about her.'

I suspected what was the matter readily enough. But it is a maxim of mine that men (being superior creatures) are bound to improve women -- if they can. When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it doesn't matter), I always insist on knowing why. The oftener you make them rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will find them in all the relations of life. It isn't their fault (poor wretches!) that they act first, and think afterwards; it's the fault of the fools who humour them.

Penelope's reason why, on this occasion, may be given in her own words. `I am afraid, father,' she said, `Mr. Franklin has hurt Rosanna cruelly, without intending it.'

`What took Rosanna into the shrubbery walk?' I asked.

`Her own madness,' says Penelope; `I can call it nothing else. She was bent on speaking to Mr. Franklin, this morning, come what might of it. I did my best to stop her; you saw that. If I could only have got her away before she heard those dreadful words --'

`There! there!' I said, `don't lose your head. I can't call to mind that anything happened to alarm Rosanna.'

`Nothing to alarm her, father. But Mr. Franklin said he took no interest whatever in her -- and, oh, he said it in such a cruel voice!'

`He said it to stop the Sergeant's mouth,' I answered.

`I told her that,' says Penelope. `But you see, father (though Mr. Franklin isn't to blame), he's been mortifying and disappointing her for weeks and weeks past; and now this comes on the top of it all! She has no right, of course, to expect him to take any interest in her. It's quite monstrous that she should forget herself and her station in that way. But she seems to have lost pride, and proper feeling, and everything. She frightened me, father, when Mr. Franklin said those words. They seemed to turn her into stone. A sudden quiet came over her, and she has gone about her work, ever since, like a woman in a dream.'

I began to feel a little uneasy. There was something in the way Penelope put it which silenced my superior sense. I called to mind, now my thoughts were directed that way, what had passed between Mr. Franklin and Rosanna overnight. She looked cut to the heart on that occasion; and now, as ill-luck would have it, she had been unavoidably stung again, poor soul, on the tender place. Sad! sad! -- all the more sad because the girl had no reason to justify her, and no right to feel it.

I had promised Mr. Franklin to speak to Rosanna, and this seemed the fittest time for keeping my word.

We found the girl sweeping the corridor outside the bedrooms, pale and composed, and neat as ever in her modest print dress. I noticed a curious dimness and dullness in her eyes -- not as if she had been crying, but as if she had been looking at something too long. Possibly, it was a misty something raised by her own thoughts. There was certainly no object about her too look at which she had not seen already hundreds on hundreds of times.

`Cheer up, Rosanna!' I said. `You mustn't fret over your own fancies. I have got something to say to you from Mr. Franklin.'