He shrugged his shoulders, and threw it into her lap, trying to look cool and careless, but failing entirely, for he was ashamed of himself, and out of sorts generally. Rose wanted to cry, but pride would not let her, and, being very angry, she relieved herself by talk instead of tears. Looking pale and excited, she rose out of her chair, cast away the ring, and said in a voice that she vainly tried to keep steady—

“You are not at all the boy I thought you were, and I don’t respect you one bit. I’ve tried to help you be good, but you won’t let me, and I shall not try any more. You talk a great deal about being a gentleman, but you are not, for you’ve broken your word, and I can never trust you again. I don’t wish you to go home with me. I’d rather have Mary. Good-night.”

And with that last dreadful blow, Rose walked out of the room, leaving Charlie as much astonished as if one of his pet pigeons had flown in his face and pecked at him. She was so seldom angry, that when her temper did get the better of her it made a deep impression on the lads, for it was generally a righteous sort of indignation at some injustice or wrong-doing, not childish passion.

Her little thunderstorm cleared off in a sob or two as she put on her things in the entry-closet, and when she emerged she looked the brighter for the shower. A hasty good-night to Aunt Clara—now under the hands of the hairdresser—and then she crept down to find Mary the maid. But Mary was out, so was the man, and Rose slipped away by the back-door, flattering herself that she had escaped the awkwardness of having Charlie for escort.

There she was mistaken, however, for the gate had hardly closed behind her when a well-known tramp was heard, and the Prince was beside her, saying in a tone of penitent politeness that banished Rose’s wrath like magic—

“You needn’t speak to me if you don’t choose, but I must see you safely home, cousin.”

She turned at once, put out her hand, and answered heartily—

“I was the cross one. Please forgive me, and let’s be friends again.”

Now that was better than a dozen sermons on the beauty of forgiveness, and did Charlie more good, for it showed him how sweet humility was, and proved that Rose practised as she preached.

He shook the hand warmly, then drew it through his arm and said, as if anxious to recover the good opinion with the loss of which he had been threatened—

“Look here, Rosy, I’ve put the ring back, and I’m going to try again. But you don’t know how hard it is to stand being laughed at.”

“Yes, I do! Ariadne plagues me every time I see her, because I don’t wear ear-rings after all the trouble I had getting ready for them.”

“Ah, but her twaddle isn’t half as bad as the chaffing I get. It takes a deal of pluck to hold out when you are told you are tied to an apron string, and all that sort of thing,” sighed Charlie.

“I thought you had a ‘deal of pluck,’ as you call it. The boys all say you are the bravest of the seven,” said Rose.

“So I am about some things, but I cannot bear to be laughed at.”

“It is hard, but if one is right won’t that make it easier?”

“Not to me; it might to a pious parson like Arch.”