The royal purple turban by the window has become somewhat displaced by the strong west wind, and now wide awake, begins to grumble at “Miss Rosy’s impudence in ’xertin’ herself to write trash which is of no kind o’ count, and which no human will ever read.”
I hope her prediction is a false one, for I have lately conceived the idea of devoting the entire proceeds of this book to the benefit of Rosa Lee, who, of course, has no part in the $10,000 which her father has married!
There is a rustling in the crib—the baby is waking, and at my request Juno brings her to me, saying as she lays her on my lap, “She’s the berry pictur’ of t’other Jessie,” and as her soft blue eyes unclose and my hand rests on her curly hair which begins to look golden in the sunlight, I, too, think the same, and with a throbbing heart I pray the Father to save her from the early death which came to our lost darling—“Jessie, the angel of the Pines.”
Rose Delafield.
FINIS.
New Work, Unrivaled for Interest, Value and Instruction.
The Book of the Age!
RECOLLECTIONS OF A LIFETIME,
OR