Very
tenderly Henry Warner nursed her, bearing her often in his arms up on
the vessel's deck, where she could breathe the fresh morning air as it
came rippling o'er the sea. But neither the ocean breeze, nor yet the
fragrant breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they
stopped, had power to rouse her; and when at last Havana was reached
she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whispering to no one of the
love which was wearing her life away. With untold anguish at their
hearts, both her aunt and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever
from the thought of losing one who seemed a part of his very life.
"I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without you," he said,
when once she talked to him of death. "You are all the world to me;"
and, laying his head upon her pillow, he wept as men will sometimes
weep over their one great sorrow.
"Don't, Henry," she said, laying her tiny hand upon his hair. "Maggie
will comfort you when I am gone. She will talk to you of me, standing
at my grave, for, Henry, you must not leave me here alone. You must
carry me home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood
was passed, and where I learned to love you so much--oh, so much!"
There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the last words were
uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand it, and covering the
little blue-veined hand with kisses he promised that her grave should
be made at the foot of the garden in their far-off home, where the
sunlight fell softly and the moonbeams gently shone.
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