r Perry. He loved
her too much to ask it, but I knew what it would have meant to him.

All through his last illness Rosalie clung to me. I think it grew to be
a horror to her to see him, gaunt and exhausted, in the west room. He
had a good nurse, toward the last, and good food. I had had a small
fortune left to me, too late, by a distant relative. I paid for the cook
and the nurse, and I sent flowers to Rosalie that she might take them to
Perry and let his hungry eyes feed upon her.

It was in the winter that he died, and after all was over Rosalie and I
went out and stood together on the little porch. There was snow on the
ground and the bright stars seemed caught in the branches of the pines.

Rosalie shook and sobbed.

"I hate--death," she said. "Oh, Jim Crow, why did God let my poor Peer
die?" She was completely unstrung. "Death is so--ugly."

I said, "It is not ugly. Peer will live again--like the daffodils in
the spring."

"Do you believe that, Jim Crow?"

I did believe it, and I told her so--that even now her Peer was strong
and well; and I think it comforted her. It gave her lover back to her,
as it were, in the glory of his youth.

She did not wear mourning, or, rather, she wore mourning which was like
that worn by no other woman. Her robes were of purple. She kept Perry's
picture on the table, and out of the frame his young eyes laughed at us,
so that gradually the vision of that ravaged figure in the west room
faded.

I went to see her once a week. It seemed the only thing to do. She was
utterly alone, with no family but the great-aunt and uncle who had been
with her when she met Perry. She was a child in business matters, and
Perry had left it to me to administer the affairs of his little estate.
Rosalie had her small bungalow, Perry's insurance, and she turned her
knowledge of painting to practical account. She made rather special
things in lamp-shades and screens, and was well paid for them.

I went, as I have said, once a week. A woman friend shared part of her
house, but was apt to be out, and so I saw Rosalie usually alone. I
lived now at the club and kept a car. Rosalie often dined with me, but I
rarely ate at the bungalow. Now and then in the afternoon she made me a
cup of tea, rather more, I am sure, for the picturesque service with
her treasured Sheffield than for any desire to contribute to my own
cheer or comfort.

And so, gradually, I grew into her life and she grew into mine. I was