For a little while, Rose attempted to resume her teaching, but she was soon compelled to give up. Only, till the last she flitted about the cottage, performing her household duties as she had ever done, and being as she had ever been, the presiding spirit of the home that was so dear to her grandfather. In the winter evenings, too, they sat together, she in her olden seat at his feet, looking into the fire, and listening to the howling wind without, neither speaking, except at rare intervals, and then in a low and dreamy tone that harmonized with the time. One evening they had sat thus for a long time, the old man clasping her hands, while her head rested on his knee. The fire burned low and gave scarcely any light; the night was stormy, and the wind blew a hurricane. At every blast he felt her tremble. "God help those at sea," he cried, with a sudden impulse. "Amen, Amen!" said Rose, solemnly, and though she started and shivered when he spoke, she kissed his hands afterward, almost as if in gratitude. There was a long pause; then she lifted her head, and said in a very low voice: "Remember, dear grandpapa, if at any time, by-and-by, you should feel inclined to be angry, vexed, with--any one--because of me; you are to forgive them, for my sake: for my sake, my own grandpapa.--Promise!" He did so, and she wound her arms lovingly round his neck, and kissed his brows, as of old she had done every night before retiring to rest. And then her head sunk on his shoulder, and she wept. In those tears how much was expressed that could find no other utterance! the lingering regret to die that the young must ever feel, even when life is most desolate; the tender gratitude for the deep love her grandfather had ever borne her; sorrow for him, and for herself! And he, silent and tearless as he sat, understood it all, and blessed her in his heart. The next day she died quietly, lying on her little bed, with her pale hands meekly folded on her breast; for her last breath exhaled in prayer for her grandfather--and one other. It happened that the Wilsons and some other acquaintances came in the evening to inquire how she was. For sole reply, Lieutenant Heathcote, whose tearless eyes and rigid lips half frightened them, led them where she lay. They retired, weeping, subdued, and sad, and as they were leaving the cottage, he heard Mrs. Wilson say to her friend, while she dried her eyes: "Poor girl, poor girl! She was very amiable, we all liked her exceedingly. I am afraid though, on one occasion, I was rather harsh to her, and, poor child, she seemed to take it a good deal to heart. But the fact was, that our Edward, I half fancied"--there followed a whispering, and then, in a louder tone--"but his father, thinking with me, sent him off to sea, and there was an end of the matter."