Rose continued, speaking in a low, meditative tone: 

“Yes; I am sorry, sorry for the evil I have done.  It was not worth while to do it.  Life is too short—­too short even at its longest.  But, oh!  I had such a passionate ambition for recognition by the great world! for the admiration of society!  Every one whom I met in our quiet lives told me, either by words or looks, that I was beautiful—­very beautiful—­and I believed them; and I longed for wealth and rank, for dress and jewels, to set off this beauty, and for ease and luxury to enjoy life.  Oh, what vanity!  Oh, what selfishness!  And here I am, with the grave yawning to swallow me up,” she murmured, drearily.

“No, dear; no,” said Cora, gently laying her hand on the blue-white forehead of the fading woman.  “No, Rose.  No grave opens for any human being; but only for the body that the freed human being has left behind.  It is not the grave that opens for you, Rose, but your father’s arms.  Would you like to see a minister, dear?”

“If Mr. Rockharrt does not object.”

“Then you shall see one.”

Rose’s sick room was on the opposite side of the hall from Mr. Rockharrt’s convalescent apartment.

If the Iron King felt any sorrow at his young wife’s mortal illness, he did not show it.  If he felt any compunction for having taxed her strength to its extremity, he did not express it.  He maintained his usual stolid manner, and merely issued general orders that no trouble or expense must be spared in her treatment and in her interest.  He came into her room every day, leaning on the arm of his servant, to ask her how she felt, and to sit a few minutes by her bed.

Violet could no longer come to Rockhold, because a little Violet bud, only a few days old, kept her a close prisoner at the Banks.  But Mr. Fabian came twice a week.  The minister from the mission church at North End came very frequently, and as he was an earnest, fervent Christian, his ministrations were most beneficial to Rose.

On the day that Mr. Rockharrt first rode out, the end came, rather suddenly at the last.

There was no one in the house but Cora and the servants, Mr. Clarence having gone back to North End.  Cora had left Rose in the care of old Martha, and had come down stairs to write a letter to her brother.  She had scarcely written a page when the door was opened by Martha, who said, in a frightened tone: 

“Come, Miss Cora—­come quick! there’s a bad change.  I’m ’feard to leave her a minute, even to call you.  Please come quick!”

Both went to the bedside of the dying woman, over whose face the dark shadows of death were creeping.  Rose could no longer raise her hand to beckon or raise her voice to call, but she fixed her eyes imploringly on Cora, who bent low to catch any words she might wish to say.  She was gasping for breath as in broken tones she whispered: 

“Cora—­the Lord—­has given me—­grace—­to forgive them.  Write to—­my step-mother.  Fabian—­will tell you—­where—­”