So Rose came home at last. Not just the Rose who had left them, now
more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. Her brothers
thought her greatly changed and improved. She was more womanly, and
dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wondering
and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister
should come back to her just what she was when she went away.
She would probably have changed quite as much during those two years,
had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so
plainly. But Arthur declared that she had become Americanised to an
astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an
improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. Harry agreed
with him, without the reservation; for Harry admired the American
ladies, and took in good part Rose's hints and congratulations with
regard to a certain Miss Cora Snider, an heiress and a beauty of C---.
"A trifle older than Harry," explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme;
"but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things
`being agreeable.'"
"Of course," said Harry, with a shrug that set Graeme's fancy at rest
about Miss Cora Snider.
In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into
their old ways again. Rose's dignity and self-reliance were for her
brothers and her friends generally. With Graeme she was, in a day or
two, just what she had been before she went away--a dear child and
sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared
for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister's
loving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She was very fond of
Norman and Hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them;
but there was no one like Graeme, and there was no place like home. So
she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Rosie of
old times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child
having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it.
It was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let
her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations,
their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. Admired she might
have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite
unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, Graeme said to herself, with a
sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time
went on.
"It amuses me very much to hear Arthur say I am changed," said Rose, one
day, when the sisters were sitting together. "Why, if I had come home a
strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have
been nothing to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which I
daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind
where she was concerned. But what have you being doing to Fanny,
Graeme?"
"Rose, my dear," said Graeme, gravely, "Fanny has had a great deal of
sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, I am sure;
and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?"
"Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is concerned. For
the better! I should think so. But then I fancied that Fanny was just
the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as Janet would
say; and I confess, when I heard of the arrival of young Arthur, I was
afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not
be easier to live with."
"Now, Rosie, that is not quite kind."
"But it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and what I
said to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and
all that, but I thought that was just your way of seeing things; you
never would see Fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first."
Graeme shook her head.
"I think you must have forgotten about the very first. We were both
foolish and faithless, then. It has all come right; Arthur is very
happy in his wife, though I never thought it could be in those days."