“Are you crying, Rosie?” asked the weak voice. “Don’t, dear; you promised not to, you know.”
Rosie’s face rested upon the pillow beside her, and Mary stroked the tear-wet cheek, softly.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t see it long ago,” said she, sadly; “sorry for you, and Larry. But it won’t be long now, and you both will be very happy.” Her voice trembled a little but she continued, bravely: “Promise me that you will think of me sometimes, Rosie?”
“I’ll never forget you, Mary,” sobbed the girl.
“And don’t let Larry forget me, either,” eagerly. “And try and be a good wife to him, Rosie.”
Both Rosie and the young man lifted their heads quickly and looked at each other, searchingly.
From far down the street came a faint, musical drone as of minor voices singing; the bell of St. Michael’s boomed the hour solemnly; quick footsteps went by the house, grew faint and then died away.
“Do you think,” Rosie’s voice trembled in dread, “that she’s dyin’, Larry?”
He had approached the bed and was looking down at the pale face framed in the dark, loose hair. She smiled up into his eyes.
“She will be good to you, Larry; she has a kind heart and will be a better wife to you than I could have been.”