She took them in her hand and hurried to Rose's room, knocked at the door and entered. Rose was seated in a white dimity-covered arm chair, engaged in reading a novel. She looked surprised, and almost frightened, at the sight of Cora, who had never before condescended to enter this private room.
"Have I disturbed you?" inquired Cora.
"Oh, no; no, indeed. Pray come in. Please sit down. Will you have this arm chair?" eagerly inquired the young woman, rising from her seat.
"No, thank you, Rose; I have scarcely time to sit. I have brought you a keepsake which I hope you will sometimes wear in memory of your old pupil," said Cora, opening the casket and displaying the gems.
Rose's face was a study—all that was good and evil in her was aroused at the sight of the rich and costly jewels—vanity, cupidity, gratitude, tenderness.
"Oh, how superb they are! I never saw such splendid gems! A parure for a princess, and you give them to me? What a munificent present! How kind you are, Cora! What can I do? How shall I ever be able to return your kindness?" said Rose, as tears of delight and wonder filled her eyes.
"Wear them and enjoy them. They suit your fair complexion very well. And now let me bid you good-by, here."
"No, no; not yet. I will go down and see you off—see the very last of you, Cora, until the carriage takes you out of sight. Oh, dear, it may indeed be the very last that I shall ever see of you, sure enough."
"I hope not. Why do you speak so sadly?"
"Because I am not strong. My father died of consumption; so did my elder brothers and sisters, the children of his first marriage, and often I think I shall follow them."