So talked old Mrs. Myles, and so she continued to talk at intervals, during the next five years, growing weaker in mind and body, until at last she took to her bed.  “I could die happy,” said the old woman, “if I were to see Helen once more; write to her, Rose, and tell her so; she will not refuse to see me, her first friend—­only once.”

Communications between the cousins had ceased for a long time, but Rose wrote.  Mrs. Myles sent twice every day to the post-office—­and her hopes, so constantly disappointed, increased her fever; at the end of a week, a letter came.

“Give it me, Rose, give it me!” exclaimed Mrs. Myles, “it is from my own darling child, bless her!—­my beauty!  Oh, deary me!  I’m sure that’s a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up—­there.  How the jessamine blinds the window—­now my spectacles—­so”—­She tried hard to read, but the power of sight was gone.  “She used to write the best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make out,” observed the old woman; “so do you read it, Rosy.”

“Here is ten pounds to begin with,” said Rose, placing the gossamer note before her.—­Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few words that accompanied the gift:—­“Grieved to the heart to hear of the illness of her ever dear relative—­would be miserable about her but from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world—­begs she will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings.”

While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles’s long thin feeble fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless cheeks.  “No word about coming, Rose—­no word about coming,” she muttered, after a pause; “send her back this trash,” she added, bitterly—­“send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty.”  She continued to mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose soon discovered that it was her last sleep.  The money was returned; and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin.  In the mean time, Edward and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed their home.  Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed; nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the “born ladies,” as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that Rose was only a farmer’s wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed to forget it.  But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling—­the chief characteristic of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds.  Rose suffered appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them; and though this is not the world’s practice, the duty is not on that account the less imperative.  They were seated one evening round their table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the post-office brought them a letter.