"Give it me, Rose, give it me!" exclaimed Mrs. Myles, "it is from my own darling child, bless her!—my beauty! Oh, deary me! I'm sure that's a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up—there. How the jessamine blinds the window—now my spectacles—so"—She tried hard to read, but the power of sight was gone. "She used to write the best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make out," observed the old woman; "so do you read it, Rosy."
"Here is ten pounds to begin with," said Rose, placing the gossamer note before her.—Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few words that accompanied the gift:—"Grieved to the heart to hear of the illness of her ever dear relative—would be miserable about her but from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world—begs she will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings."
While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles's long thin feeble fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless cheeks. "No word about coming, Rose—no word about coming," she muttered, after a pause; "send her back this trash," she added, bitterly—"send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty." She continued to mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose soon discovered that it was her last sleep. The money was returned; and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin. In the mean time, Edward and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed their home. Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed; nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the "born ladies," as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that Rose was only a farmer's wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed to forget it. But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling—the chief characteristic of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds. Rose suffered appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them; and though this is not the world's practice, the duty is not on that account the less imperative. They were seated one evening round their table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the post-office brought them a letter.
"It has lain two days, Measter Lynne," said the man, "for you never send but once a-week; only, as I thought by the seal it must be something grand, whoy I brought it down myself."
It was from Helen!—from the ambitious cousin—a few sad, mournful lines, every one of which seemed dictated by a breaking heart.
She was ill and wretched, and the physician had suggested change of air; but above all her native air. Would Rose receive her for a little time, just to try what its effect might be?—she was sure she would, and she would be with her immediately.
"Strange," said Edward, "how nature will assert and keep its power; when luxury, art, skill, knowledge, fail to restore health, they tell you of native air, trusting to the simple, pure restorative, which is the peasant's birthright, as infallible. I wonder, Rose, how those fine people like to be thrown back upon the nature they so outrage."
"Poor Helen!" exclaimed Rose, "how dispirited she seems—how melancholy! I ought to feel afraid of your meeting her, I suppose, Edward; but I do not—you have grown satisfied with your poor Rose. We shall be able to make her very comfortable, shall we not?"—and then she smiled at the homeliness of the phrase, and wondered what Helen would say if she heard her.
It was not without sundry heartbeatings that Rose heard the carriage stop, and assisted Helen to alight; nor could she conceal her astonishment at the ravages which not past years but past emotions had wrought on her once beautiful face.