Suddenly into the room burst black, dumb Dinah, wringing her hands and moving her speechless lips with frightful earnestness. In her hands she carried the fragments of the pot which had held the tuberose.
Rose sprang up with a cry of anguish.
“Dinah! Dinah! My tuberose!”
The negress gesticulated wildly, but her mistress rushed past her; and, followed by her husband, hastened to see for herself the extent of the mischief.
The pot had been overturned by the wind, which had burst in one of the tiny greenish window panes, and the plant was completely crushed in the downfall. Not a single flower had escaped, and mingled with fragments of pottery and with the black church-yard mould in which the flower had—perhaps ill-fatedly—been planted, were the leaves and petals, torn and stained and mangled.
In the first sorrow of the discovery of the accident, Rose threw herself into her husband’s arms and burst into tears; but she soon controlled herself, and became perfectly calm. She directed Dinah to remove the débris, and returned to listen to her husband’s stories; and, although she was more quiet than before, she seemed no less interested.
It was late when they prepared to retire.
“John,” Rose said, hesitatingly, as they lingered a moment side by side before the wide hearth, “it is just a year to-night since Mistress Henshaw died. If you are willing, I wish to pass the night alone in her room.”
“I am always willing you should do whatever pleaseth you best,” he answered, smiling upon her; “but why do you mean to shut me out from your sorrow? I, too, loved her.”
“I know,” Rose returned, bending to kiss the hand he had laid upon hers, “and I fear you can never be shut out from my sorrows, however much I could wish to spare you. Still, I wish it to be so for to-night.”