At first Mrs.Lincoln wept bitterly for if Rose went to Glenwood, she, too, must of course go and the old brown house, with its oaken floor and wainscoted ceiling, had now no charms for the gay woman of fashion who turned with disdain from the humble roof which had sheltered her childhood.
Lifting her tearful eyes to her husband's face, she said "Oh, I can't go there.

Why not engage rooms at the hotel in Glenwood village.
Mother is so odd and peculiar in her ways of living, that I never can endure it," and again Mrs.Lincoln buried her face in the folds of her fine linen cambric, thinking there was never in the world a woman as wretched as herself.
"Don't, Hatty, don't; it distresses me to see you feel thus.

Rooms and board at the hotel would cost far more than I can afford to pay, and then, too,--" here he paused, as if to gather courage for what he was next to say; "and then, too, your mother will care for Rose's _soul_ as well as body." Mrs.Lincoln looked up quickly, and her husband continued, "Yes, Hatty, we need not deceive ourselves longer.

Rose must die, and you know as well as I whether our training has been such as will best fit her for another world." For a time Mrs.Lincoln was silent, and then in a more subdued tone, she said, "Do as you like, only you must tell Rose.

_I_ never can." Half an hour after, Mr.Lincoln entered his daughter's room, and bending affectionately over her pillow, said, "How is my darling to-day ?" "Better, better,--almost well," returned Rose, raising herself in bed to prove what she had said.