Alone in his library sat Richard Delafield, his arms resting upon the table, and his face buried in his hands. All the night long he had sat there thus, musing sadly of the future when _she_ would be gone, and he should be alone. Why had she crossed his path—that little, humble girl, and why had he been permitted to love her so madly, or to dream of a time when he could call her “_his own, his Rose, his wife_.” Again and again he repeated those words to himself, and then as he thought whose she would be when another sun should have set, he groaned aloud, and in despairing tones cried out, “How can I give her up!” The sun had risen, and, struggling through the richly curtained window, fell upon his bowed head, but he did not heed it. He was sleeping at last, and in his dreams another than Dr. Clayton had claimed Rose for his bride, even Death, and without a tear he laid her in her coffin, and buried her where the soft sighing cedar and the whispering pine would overshadow her grave. From that dream he was roused by Jessie, who shrieked in his ear, “Wake, Uncle Dick, and come. Miss Lee is dying with the fever, and there is nobody to help her.” For a time the selfish part of Richard Delafield’s nature gained the ascendant, and he said aloud, “Thank God! Rather thus than the bride of another.” Still this feeling did not prevent him from action, and with a firm step and composed manner he went with Jessie to Cedar Grove, going immediately to Rosa’s chamber, where, for a moment, he stood appalled at the scene before him. She had fearfully changed since last he saw her, for the disease had advanced with rapid strides, and now utterly insensible, and white as the wintry snow, she lay with her head thrown back, and her lips apart, while her hands nervously picked at the bed-clothes around her! Many a time had Dr. Clayton heard that this was a sure omen of death, and though he had ever laughed at it as an old woman’s whim, he shuddered now as he saw it in _her_, and bowing his head upon the pillow, he wept like a child. For a moment Richard Delafield stood gazing upon the apparently dying girl and the weeping man, who seemed wholly incapable of action; then rousing himself, he went in quest of the black women, commanding them in a voice they dared not disobey to come at once to the sick-room. He had heard that nothing but violent and continual perspiration had as yet been of any avail in such extreme cases, and calmly giving orders to that effect, he himself assisted while the hemlock and the bottles of hot water were applied, then, administering a powerful tonic, he bade Jessie go for her mother, while he took his station at the bedside to watch the result.