Rosa Staines had youth on her side, and it is an old saying that youth will not be denied. Youth struggled with death for her, and won the battle. But she came out of that terrible fight weak as a child. The sweet pale face, the widow's cap, the suit of deep black--it was long ere these came down from the sickroom. And when they did, oh, the dead blank! The weary, listless life! The days spent in sighs, and tears, and desolation. Solitude! solitude! Her husband was gone, and a strange woman played the mother to her child before her eyes. Uncle Philip was devotedly kind to her, and so was her father; but they could do nothing for her. Months rolled on, and skinned the wound over. Months could not heal. Her boy became dearer and dearer, and it was from him came the first real drops of comfort, however feeble. She used to read her lost one's diary every day, and worship, in deep sorrow, the mind she had scarcely respected until it was too late. She searched in his diary to find his will, and often she mourned that he had written on it so few things she could obey. Her desire to obey the dead, whom, living, she had often disobeyed, was really simple and touching. She would mourn to her father that there were so few commands to her in his diary. “But,” said she, “memory brings me back his will in many things, and to obey is now the only sad comfort I have.” It was in this spirit she now forced herself to keep accounts. No fear of her wearing stays now; no powder; no trimmings; no waste. After the usual delay, her father told her she should instruct a solicitor to apply to the insurance company for the six thousand pounds. She refused with a burst of agony. “The price of his life,” she screamed. “Never! I'd live on bread and water sooner than touch that vile money.” Her father remonstrated gently. But she was immovable. “No. It would be like consenting to his death.” Then Uncle Philip was sent for. He set her child on her knee; and gave her a pen. “Come,” said he, sternly, “be a woman, and do your duty to little Christie.” She kissed the boy, cried, and did her duty meekly. But when the money was brought her, she flew to Uncle Philip, and said, “There! there!” and threw it all before him, and cried as if her heart would break. He waited patiently, and asked her what he was to do with all that: invest it? “Yes, yes; for my little Christie.” “And pay you the interest quarterly.” “Oh, no, no. Dribble us out a little as we want it. That is the way to be truly kind to a simpleton. I hate that word.” “And suppose I run off with it? Such confiding geese as you corrupt a man.” “I shall never corrupt you. Crusty people are the soul of honor.” “Crusty people!” cried Philip, affecting amazement. “What are they?” She bit her lip and colored a little; but answered adroitly, “They are people that pretend not to have good hearts, but have the best in the world; far better ones than your smooth ones: that's crusty people.”