“Oh yes, dear mamma,” said Rosalie, “I dread death only because it severs the close-knit ties of earth—thanks to your teachings, I have always regarded it as a beautiful and benignant ministration of our Heavenly Father’s love—as the birth-day of the soul to a higher and happier life, without satiety or end. But this day, mamma, brings to me a double bereavement, for it is that on which our sweet Adalia left us—and now—and now—” She paused, covering her streaming eyes with her hand. “Yes, and she is near me—very near—waiting to conduct me to her spirit-home,” said the mother, with a rapt look, as though she indeed gazed upon the form of her departed child—as who shall say she did not, or that our loved ones do not ever sit beside our dying pillow, as is the sweet belief, and a true one, as we think, of many. “The dear rose-tree she planted,” resumed the dying mother, after a moment’s pause, “will soon be bright with blossoms, as on the day she left us—let its flowers, my Rosalie, cover my snowy grave, and on each anniversary of my departure, strew them there in remembrance of us both.” “Yes—yes, dear mamma!” was all the sobbing girl could utter. “Do so, darling child,” said the mother—“our spirits will be with you, my Rosalie—and never, never, dear one, forget while it lives, to cherish for her sweet sake, the rose-tree her young hand planted.” “Never! my own mamma,” sobbed Rosalie; “for her dear sake and yours, it shall be a sacred thing to me always.” It was on the first day of her illness that the little Adalia had planted this rose-tree, then a tiny thing; and before another spring came round, its flowers were strewn upon her grave. From that time the plant was watched with reverent care by the tender mother; and when she left her southern home for the colder north, this cherished thing accompanied her, though there were many others far more useful and costly that were necessarily left behind. The death of his wife gave the final blow to Mr. La Motte’s health and spirits—still he struggled on, but evidently with a broken-heart, till finally a sudden paralysis, which partially affected the mind, and wholly prostrated the physical powers, laid him helpless upon a weary bed of pain. It was then, when every earthly stay seemed to have deserted her, that all the hidden strength and beauty of Rosalie’s character were developed. Deprived at once of the power of active exertion, Mr. La Motte’s small income ceased—the house they occupied, humble as it was, could no longer be retained—and Rosalie, all inexperienced, felt the necessity of looking out for a less expensive abode. After long and patient search she at length discovered the old house with its unoccupied attic, where we have introduced her to the reader, and to which she removed her father, with the few articles of comfort and convenience she could afford to keep, and there for many months she had now toiled unremittingly for their support.