For a time she had seemed so indifferent and obstinate, that Mrs. Howland had almost despaired. But night after night, when her daughter thought she slept, she prayed for the young girl, that she might not die until she had first learned the way of eternal life. And, as if in answer to her prayers, Rose gradually began to listen, and as she listened, she wept, wondering though why her grandmother thought her so much more wicked than any one else. Again, in a sudden burst of passion, she would send her from the room, saying, "she had heard preaching enough, for she wasn't going to die,--she wouldn't die any way." But at last such feelings passed away, and as the sun of her short life was setting, the sun of righteousness shone more and more brightly over her pathway, lighting her through the dark valley of death. She no longer asked to be taken home, for she knew that could not be, but she wondered why her brother stayed so long from Glenwood, when he knew that she was dying. On her return from the city, Jenny had told her as gently as possible of his conduct towards Ella, and of her fears that he was becoming more dissipated than ever. For a time Rose lay perfectly still, and Jenny, thinking she was asleep, was about to leave the room, when her sister called her back, and bidding her sit down by her side, said, "Tell me, Jenny, do you think Henry has any love for me?" "He would be an unnatural brother if he had not," answered Jenny, her own heart yearning more tenderly towards her sister, whose gentle manner she could not understand. "Then," resumed Rose, "if he loves me, he will be sorry when I am dead, and perhaps it may save him from ruin." The tears dropped slowly from her long eyelashes, while Jenny, laying her round rosy cheek against the thin pale face near her, sobbed out, "You must not die,--dear Rose. You must not die, and leave us." From that time the failure was visible and rapid, and though letters went frequently to Henry, telling him of his sister's danger, he still lingered by the side of the brilliant beauty, while each morning Rose asked, "Will he come to-day?" and each night she wept that he was not there. Calmly and without a murmur she had heard the story of their ruin from her father, who could not let her die without undeceiving her. Before that time she had asked to be taken back to Mount Auburn, designating the spot where she would be buried, but now she insisted upon being laid by the running brook at the foot of her grandmother's garden, and near a green mossy bank where the spring blossoms were earliest found, and where the flowers of autumn lingered longest. The music of the falling water, she said would soothe her as she slept, and its cool moisture keep the grass green and fresh upon her early grave.