would my Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true
and kind to a sick old man like me!" And then his poor soul crept
away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for years
before, and Rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding-night
that widowed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. Toothaker
was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness to the man
half alive, that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his voice,
bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the next winter, though
the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling from that
cold bed, "Rose! Rose! come put a blanket on my feet."

So now the Rosebud was the Widow Toothaker. Her troubles had come
early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom
was fled. She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, with
a widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won a widower, stealing
into his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the Widow
Toothaker had no such projects. By her watchings and continual cares,
her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which
changed its very nature, and made her love him for his infirmities,
and infirmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even
her early lover could not have supplied his place. She had dwelt in a
sick-chamber, and been the companion of a half-dead wretch, till she
could scarcely breathe in a free air, and felt ill at ease with the
healthy and the happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor's
stuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors
came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and
shocked by their loud voices. Often in the lonesome evening, she
looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of
recognizing a ghastly face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts
sadly to her husband's grave. If one impatient throb bad wronged him