——
CHAPTER IV.
As Rosalie ascended the stairs to the attic, she heard, through the half-open door of a room which she passed, the words—“He is dead, and the girl is away.” Every syllable fell like a bolt of ice upon her heart, for to whom could they refer except to her father and herself? She paused not to think or question; fear, agony—every terrible emotion had lent wings to her feet, she flew upward like a hunted bird, one dreadful thought impelling her onward till she reached the bedside of her father.
Around it stood two or three females, tenants of the house, gazing on the rigid, cold form, pale as marble, which, with closed eyes and motionless hands lay extended before them. With a cry of anguish that would have pierced the most stony heart, Rosalie sprang forward, and laying her now burning cheek on the cold one of her father’s, and casting her soft arms around his neck, she called to him in accents, whose tender pathos none could hear unmoved; she implored him to speak to his own Rosalie; to come back from death, and live for her who had none to live for but him. She mingled passionate and broken prayers with her adjurations, that God would restore her dear father again to her; and while she prayed, warm tears fell like summer rain upon the pale face against which her sweet one rested, and like the grateful dews upon the faded herbage, they did indeed recall the departing from the gates of death, to the consciousness of his daughter’s warm embrace and loving kiss.
She felt at last the beating of his heart beneath the pressure of her small hand, his respiration feebly fanned her cheek, his closed eyelids quivered; and while her soul bowed down in thankfulness, they were upraised with a beaming look of love, which sent its light and joy into her sinking heart.
“My dear Rosalie,” he said, striving to cast his feeble arms around her; “Still a dweller in the tearful valley of discipline and trial; but courage, courage, my own love—the veil of earthly life has been lifted from before me, and I have gazed into the unseen.” His voice sunk lower, and he paused. Rosalie pressed her cheek still closer to his, but sobs were her only utterance. “Peace, little one,” he said, with tenderness ineffable. “Peace, for they are with us! I have seen them, and soon we shall go home to them. Home! home!” he said exultingly—
“Where happy spirits dwell,
There, where one loving word
Alone is never heard,
That loving word, farewell!”