ries 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.

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 an