e was on his narrow bed, which was to be
but the precursor of a still narrower tenement, the grave. In the room
with the dying man were two females, in one of whom our readers will
at once recognize the person of Rose Budd, dressed in deep mourning
for her aunt. At first sight, it is probable that a casual spectator
would mistake the second female for one of the ordinary nurses of the
place. Her attire was well enough, though worn awkwardly, and as if
its owner were not exactly at ease in it. She had the air of one in
her best attire, who was unaccustomed to be dressed above the most
common mode. What added to the singularity of her appearance, was the
fact, that while she wore no cap, her hair had been cut into short,
gray bristles, instead of being long, and turned up, as is usual with
females. To give a sort of climax to this uncouth appearance, this
strange-looking creature chewed tobacco.

The woman in question, equivocal as might be her exterior, was
employed in one of the commonest avocations of her sex--that of
sewing. She held in her hand a coarse garment, one of Spike's, in
fact, which she seemed to be intently busy in mending; although the
work was of a quality that invited the use of the palm and
sail-needle, rather than that of the thimble and the smaller implement
known to seamstresses, the woman appeared awkward in her business, as
if her coarse-looking and dark hands refused to lend themselves to an
occupation so feminine. Nevertheless, there were touches of a purely
womanly character about this extraordinary person, and touches that
particularly attracted the attention, and awakened the sympathy of the
gentle Rose, her companion. Tears occasionally struggled out from
beneath her eyelids, crossed her dark, sun-burnt cheek, and fell on
the coarse canvas garment that lay in her lap. It was after one of
these sudden and strong exhibitions of feeling that Rose approached
her, laid her own little, fair hand, in a friendly way, though
unheeded, on the other's shoulder, and spoke to her in her kindest and
softest tones.

"I do really think he is reviving, Jack," said Rose, "and that you may
yet hope to have an intelligent conversation with him."

"They all agree he _must_ die," answered Jack Tier--for it was _he_,
appearing in the garb of his proper sex, after a disguise that had now
lasted fully twenty years--"and he will never know who I am, and that
I forgive him. He must think of me in another world, tho