“Saturate my handkerchief with cologne, and put the vinaigrette where I can reach it while you arrange my hair,” said she to Sarah, who at the usual hour came up to dress her young mistress for the evening.  “There, be careful and not brush so hard, for that ugly pain isn’t quite gone—­now bring me the glass and let me see if I do look like a ghost.”

“Pale, delicate folks is always more interesting than red, hearty ones,” said the flattering servant, as she obeyed.

“Mercy, how white I am!” exclaimed Rose, glancing at the ashen face reflected by the mirror.  “Rub my cheeks with cologne, Sarah, and see if that won’t bring some color into them.  There, that’ll do.  Now hand me my dress.  Oh, isn’t it beautiful?” she continued, as she threw aside the thickly wadded double gown, and assumed a light, thin dress, which fell in soft, fleecy folds around her slight figure.

“Faith, an ye looks sweet, God bless you,” said Sarah as she clasped the diamond bracelet around the snowy arms and fastened the costly ornaments in the delicate ears.

When her toilet was completed, Rose stood up before the long mirror, and a glow of pride came to her cheeks, as she saw how lovely she really was.

“You’s enough sight handsomer than Miss Jenny,” whispered Sarah, as the door opened and Jenny appeared, more simply arrayed than her sister, but looking as fresh and blooming as a rose-bud.

“How beautiful you are, Rosa,” said she, “only it makes me shiver to look at your neck and arms.  You’ll wear your woollen sack, besides your shawl and cloak, won’t you?”

“Nonsense, I’m not going to be bundled up this way, for don’t you see it musses the lace,” said Rose, refusing the warm sack which Jenny brought her.

A rap at the door and a call from Henry that the carriage was waiting, ended the conversation, and throwing on their cloaks and hoods, the girls descended to the hall, where with unusual tenderness Henry caught up his invalid sister, and drawing her veil closely over her face, carried her to the covered sleigh, so that her feet might not touch the icy walk.

“What!  Rose Lincoln here!” exclaimed half a dozen voices as Rose bounded into the dressing-room.

“Yes, Rose Lincoln is here,” she replied, gayly divesting herself of her wrapping.  “I’m not going to die just yet, I guess, neither am I going to be housed up all winter.  The fresh air has done me good already,—­see,” and she pointed to a bright round spot which burnt upon her cheeks.

A young girl, whose family had one by one fallen victims to the great New England plague, consumption, shuddered and turned way, for to her eye the glow which Rose called health was but the hectic bloom of death.

“How beautiful she is!” said more than one, as with her accustomed grace Rose entered the brilliant drawing-room.  And truly Rose was beautiful that night, but like the gorgeous foliage of the fading autumn ’twas the beauty of decay, for death was written on her blue-veined brow, and lurked amid the roses on her cheek.  But little thought she of that, as with smiling lip and beaming eye she received the homage of the admiring throng.