Rose tried again: Béranger. "That won't do," she said. "A pretty laugh you would have at my French accent!"
"Your accent is not a bad one, Rose."
"It may pass in conversation. But to read poetry aloud in any language but one's own, is---- What's this?" continued Rose, interrupting herself as she opened another volume; which she as quickly dropped again. It was Bulwer's "Pilgrims of the Rhine."
"That will do as well as another," said Adeline.
"No," shortly answered Rose, avoiding the book with a gesture that was half a shrug and half a shudder. Adeline stretched out her hand and drew her near, speaking in a low murmuring tone.
"You fear to remind me of myself, Rose, in telling of Gertrude. Indeed, there is no analogy to be traced between the cases," she added, with a bitter smile, "save in the nature of the disease; and that we must both die. One might envy her fate."
"I don't like the book," persisted Rose.
"I do," said Adeline. "One tale in it I could never be tired of. I forget its title, but it begins, 'The angels strung their harps in Heaven, and the----'"
"I know," interrupted Rose, rapidly turning over the pages. "Here it is. 'The Soul in Purgatory; or, Love stronger than Death.' It is a tale of woman's enduring love."
"And its reward," sighed Adeline. "Read it. It is very short."