“Yes, my only, only child!”
There was something in the eye now first raised to hers, that eye sunken but still wonderfully beautiful—a half-remembered expression, that riveted Emily’s gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the woman, she said softly —
“Is it long since you laid her here?”
“Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were buds on the rose-tree when I brought it here.”
“And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to inhale the rich fragrance of the beautiful flower.
“Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed. Oh! how often have I watched her as she sat beside it at the window, with her proud head bending over her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than the brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise, how beautiful she was! I used to think that in all the wide world, there was not, there could never be a face so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my child, and God has taken her from me!”
She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive face of Emily, continued:
“I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark eyes and impassioned nature of the land of her birth. When my child was but two years old, I left my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my young American husband to his own land. And here, before many years, he died and left me, with a charge to watch over unceasingly, our marvelously beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent complexion and regular features, had also inherited his delicate constitution.
“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not, so that Elise were happy—so that I could but find her the books she loved, and save her slight hands from menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care, that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair around her noble head, and it was joy enough to look once into her soft eyes, and see her faint smile at my fond pride.
“Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with thoughts of beauty and of poetry, and she talked of things in which I could not sympathize; the world seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for her than for me. I felt that I could not understand my child—hers was a purer and a greater nature than mine, and I looked upon her with a reverent worship. I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected with the spirit within.”