"ROSE."

The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, who, after
its perusal, kissed her, saying: "It is right, my darling. I will send
it to-morrow with mine; and now for a ride. I will see what a little
exercise can do for you. I do not like the color of your face."

But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence of Henry
Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse the drooping Rose; and
when at last she was left alone she sought her bed, where for many
weeks she hovered between life and death, while her brother and her
aunt hung over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent
many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick girl. In the
close atmosphere of his counting-room George Douglas too again battled
manfully with his olden love, listening each day to hear that she was
dead. But not thus early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer
days she came slowly back to life. More beautiful than ever, because
more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like one who, having
struggled with a mighty sorrow, had won the victory at last; and Henry
Warner, when he looked on her sweet, placid face, and listened to her
voice as she made plans for the future, when Maggie would be his wife,
dreamed not of the grave hidden in the deep recesses of her heart,
where grew no flower of hope or semblance of earthly joy.

Thus little know mankind of each other!




CHAPTER X