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The note was there perched against the silver tree that had been arranged in front of Janet's place, and the note said:

Darling—I'm in an awful hurry about something. Meant to have waked and didn't. Look at the tree as you drink your coffee and know that your wicked tiresome sister loves you and will let no Pooles whatsoever take her place.

Rosalind

Janet smiled. She took up the little tree and caressed its stiff green leaves with loving fingers. The silver buds sparkled even in the dull light of the grey morning. Mrs. Beddoes smiled appreciatively, "Why, that is a pretty thing, Miss, I must say. Awful dangerous to dust, though," and she disappeared into Rosalind's bedroom.

Janet sighed. Rosalind might have stayed just for ten minutes on this morning of all others. How characteristic it all was! The haste, the affection, her room left no doubt in hopeless disorder, secrecy, impetuosity, unkindness mingled with the kindness.

As always when Janet thought of her sister that love, hot, tyrannous, jealous, yearning, tender, angry, arose in her heart, causing her to forget everything else. Why does love burn the fiercer from unfulfilment, why so passionately desired the fruit that is just without our reach?