CHAPTER XXVI.

A VOLUNTARY EXPIATION.

Rose never lost patience.  She stayed by the bedside always until the doctor turned her out of the room.  She came back the moment she was called, night or day.

Weeks passed and Mr. Rockharrt grew better and stronger, but Rose grew worse and weaker.  The fine autumn weather that braced up the convalescent old man chilled and depressed the consumptive young woman.

It was certain that Mr. Rockharrt would entirely regain his health and strength, and even take out a new lease of life.

“I never saw any one like your grandfather in all my long practice,” said the doctor to Cora one morning, after he had left his patient; “he is a wonder to me.  Nothing but a catastrophe could ever have laid him on an invalid bed; and no other man that I know could have recovered from such injuries as he has sustained.  Why in a month from this time he will be as well as ever.  He has a constitution of tremendous strength.”

“But the poor wife,” said Cora.

“Ah, poor soul!” sighed the doctor.

“And yet a little while ago she seemed such a perfect picture of health.”

“My dear, wherever you see that abnormally clear, fresh, semi-transparent complexion, be sure it is a bad sign—­a sign of unsoundness within.”

“Can nothing be done for Rose?”

“Yes; and I am doing it as much as she will let me.  I advise a warmer climate for the coming winter.  Mr. Rockharrt will be able to travel by the first of November, and he should then take her to Florida.  But, you see, he pooh-poohs the whole suggestion.  Well—­’A willful man must have his way,’” said the doctor, as he took up his hat and bade the lady good-by.

A week after this conversation, on the day on which Aaron Rockharrt first sat up in his easy chair, Rose had her first hemorrhage from the lungs.  It laid her on the bed from which she was never to rise.

Cora became her constant and tender nurse.  Rose was subdued and patient.  A few days after this she said to the lady: 

“It seems to me that my own dear father, who has been absent from my thoughts for so many years, has drawn very near his poor child in these last few months, and nearer still in the last few days.  I do not see him, nor hear him, nor feel him by any natural sense, but I do perceive him.  I do perceive that he is trying to do me good, and that he is glad I am coming to him so soon.  I am sorry for all the wrong I have done, and I hope the Lord will forgive me.  But how can I expect Him to do it, when I can scarcely forgive—­even now on my dying bed I can scarcely forgive—­my step-mother and her husband for the neglect and cruelty that wrecked my life?  Oh, but I forget.  You know nothing of all this.”

Cora did know.  Fabian had told her; but he had also exacted a promise of secrecy from her; so she said nothing in reply to this.