In all John’s hours of sorrow and trouble, the instinctive feeling of his heart was to go back to the memory of his mother; and the nearest to his mother was his sister Grace. In this hour of his blind sorrow, he walked directly over to the little cottage on Elm Street, which Grace and her husband had made a perfectly ideal home. When he came into the parlor, Grace and Rose were sitting together with an open letter lying between them. It was evident that some crisis of tender confidence had passed between them; for the tears were hardly dry on Rose’s cheeks. Yet it was not painful, whatever it was; for her face was radiant with smiles, and John thought he had never seen her look so lovely. At this moment the truth of her beautiful and lovely womanhood, her sweetness and nobleness of nature, came over him, in bitter contrast with the scene he had just passed through, and the woman he had left. “What do you think, John?” said Grace; “we have some congratulations here to give! Rose is engaged to Harry Endicott.” “Indeed!” said John, “I wish her joy.” “But what is the matter, John?” said both women, looking up, and seeing something unusual in his face. “Oh, trouble!” said John,—“trouble upon us all. Gracie and Rose, the Spindlewood Mills have failed.” “Is it possible?” was the exclamation of both. “Yes, indeed!” said John; “you see, the thing has been running very close for the last six months; and the manufacturing business has been looking darker and darker. But still we could have stood it if the house of Clapham & Co. had stood; but they have gone to smash, Gracie. I had a letter this morning, telling me of it.” Both women stood a moment as if aghast; for the Ferguson property was equally involved. “Poor papa!” said Rose; “this will come hard on him.” “I know it,” said John, bitterly. “It is more for others that I feel than for myself,—for all that are involved must suffer with me.” “But, after all, John dear,” said Rose, “don’t feel so about us at any rate. We shall do very well. People that fail honorably always come right side up at last; and, John, how good it is to think, whatever you lose, you cannot lose your best treasure,—your true noble heart, and your true friends. I feel this minute that we shall all know each other better, and be more precious to each other for this very trouble.” John looked at her through his tears. “Dear Rose,” he said, “you are an angel; and from my soul I congratulate the man that has got _you_. He that has you would be rich, if he lost the whole world.”