watching and
tears, leaned heavily against William; and Rose, as often as her eyes
unclosed and rested upon her, would whisper, "Jenny,--dear Jenny, I
wish I had loved you more."

Grandma Howland had laid many a dear one in the grave, and as she saw
another leaving her, she thought, "how grew her store in Heaven," and
still her heart was quivering with anguish, for Rose had grown
strongly into her affection. But for the sake of the other stricken
ones she hushed her own grief, knowing it would not be long ere she
met her child again. And truly it seemed more meet that she with her
gray hair and dim eyes should die even then, than that Rose, with the
dew of youth still glistening upon her brow, should thus early be laid
low.

"If Henry does not come," said Rose, "tell him it was my last request
that he turn away from the wine-cup, and say, that the bitterest pang
I felt in dying, was a fear that my only brother should fill a
drunkard's grave. He cannot look upon me dead, and feel angry that I
wished him to reform. And as he stands over my coffin, tell him to
promise never again to touch the deadly poison."

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