The Reaping by Mary Imlay Taylor

ROSE slept but little that night; she tossed instead, trying to still her heart. She had seen Fox but a moment in the throng, but that moment had been enough for her to feel the subtle change in their relations. Her perceptions were delicate, far reaching, exquisitely sensitive. He was not himself, his troubled eye met hers with a confession of sorrow which she could not interpret. Standing outside of his consciousness, unaware of the struggle in his soul, she only saw estrangement, awkwardness, a mute appeal, which seemed to her incapable of explanation unless he loved Margaret and had been trifling with her. The thought made Rose sit up in bed with flaming cheeks.

It is useless to inculcate the spirit of meekness and Christian submission in a child when you cannot pluck the old Adam out of the heart. Rose was her father's daughter; she meant to be a good Christian, she had little stiff limitations in her life, but she never thought of breaking her pride; it came to her with her blood, with her long and respectable descent from a race of God-fearing English yeomen, transplanted to the soil of a new world and endowed with a new and fuller stream of blood and physical beauty, but with the same hardy pluck, the same psalm-singing, fighting spirit which led the van at Naseby.