“My dear Rosalie,” he said, striving to cast his feeble arms around her; “Still a dweller in the tearful valley of discipline and trial; but courage, courage, my own love—the veil of earthly life has been lifted from before me, and I have gazed into the unseen.” His voice sunk lower, and he paused. Rosalie pressed her cheek still closer to his, but sobs were her only utterance. “Peace, little one,” he said, with tenderness ineffable. “Peace, for they are with us! I have seen them, and soon we shall go home to them. Home! home!” he said exultingly— “Where happy spirits dwell, There, where one loving word Alone is never heard, That loving word, _farewell_!” Again his eyes closed; and with a smile of serenity upon his lips he slept, or seemed to sleep, tranquilly as an infant. Rosalie raised her head and gazed upon his placid face. “The peace which passeth all understanding, the peace of heaven is within this breast,” she murmured, laying her head upon his bosom, while the breath of prayer went up like fragrant incense from her crushed and bleeding heart. The women had all withdrawn except one, and she, with pitying and kindly purpose, remained to comfort the young girl, and give aid, if need were, to the father; and so in silence a short interval passed, when again the sick man moved, and the watchful child raised her head to catch and interpret his first look; but, as she met his restless and troubled gaze, she saw that the clear intellect had become clouded, even before he spoke, and then, with his first word, her fear became certainty. Casting an anxious glance toward the window— “Has she robbed us of them _all_?” he asked. “What? dear papa,” inquired Rosalie, tenderly. “The roses, child; your mother’s roses, and Adalia’s. They asked me for them just now; their bed, they said, was cold, and they wanted their life and bloom to warm the snow which covered it.” “Dear papa, I will lay them there to-morrow. It brings round the day on which they left us,” said Rosalie, sadly. “To-morrow, yes!” he responded; “but will there be any to shed them on us when we shall lie there with them, Rosalie?” “Dear papa, we shall be cared for then as now,” she answered soothingly; “He who brightens our poor room with those sweet flowers, will then have received us where brighter ones bloom—never to decay.” “Yes, yes,” murmured the invalid: then with an agitated look he asked again—“but has she taken them all? Look, Rosalie—see if there be one bud left and bring it to me, that I may know if it is like those I saw on Adalia’s brow, in the spirit-land. Go, child!” perceiving her still beside him; “Go, and bring me buds and roses from _her_ tree—their fragrance will soothe me like the whisper of her loving voice.”