Here she became too much exhausted to say more, and soon after fell into a quiet sleep.  When she awoke, her father was sitting across the room, with his head resting upon the window sill, while her own was pillowed upon the strong arm of George Moreland, who bent tenderly over her, and soothed her as he would a child.  Quickly her fading cheek glowed, and her eye sparkled with something of its olden light; but “George,—­George,” was all she had strength to say, and when Mary, who had accompanied him, approached her, she only knew that she was recognized by the pressure of the little blue-veined hand, which soon dropped heavily upon the counterpane, while the eyelids closed languidly, and with the words, “He will not come,” she again slept, but this time ’twas the long, deep sleep, from which she would never awaken.

* * * * *

Slowly the shades of night fell around the cottage where death had so lately left its impress.  Softly the kind-hearted neighbors passed up and down the narrow staircase, ministering first to the dead, and then turning aside to weep as they looked upon the bowed man, who with his head upon the window sill, still sat just as he did when they told him she was dead.  At his feet on a little stool was Jenny, pressing his hands, and covering them with the tears she for his sake tried in vain to repress.

At last, when it was dark without, and lights were burning upon the table, there was the sound of some one at the gate, and in a moment Henry stepped across the threshold, but started and turned pale when he saw his mother in violent hysterics upon the lounge, and Mary Howard bathing her head and trying to soothe her.  Before he had time to ask a question, Jenny’s arms were wound around his neck, and she whispered, “Rose is dead.—­Why were you so late?”

He could not answer.  He had nothing to say, and mechanically following his sister he entered the room where Rose had died.  Very beautiful had she been in life; and now, far more beautiful in death, she looked like a piece of sculptured marble; as she lay there so cold, and still, and all unconscious of the scalding tears which fell upon her face, as Henry bent over her, kissing her lips, and calling upon her to awake and speak to him once more.

When she thought he could bear it, Jenny told him of all Rose had said, and by the side of her coffin, with his hand resting upon her white forehead, the conscience-stricken young man swore, that never again should ardent spirits of any kind pass his lips, and the father who stood by and heard that vow, felt that if it were kept, his daughter had not died in vain.

The day following the burial.  George and Mary returned to Chicopee, and as the next day was the one appointed for the sale of Mr. Lincoln’s farm and country house, he also accompanied them.

“Suppose you buy it,” said he to George as they rode over the premises.  “I’d rather you’d own it than to see it in the hands of strangers.”