CHAPTER XXXII.
GOING HOME.
The windows of Rose Lincoln's chamber were open, and the balmy air of May came in, kissing the white brow of the sick girl, and whispering to her of swelling buds and fair young blossoms, which its breath had wakened into life, and which she would never see.
"Has Henry come ?" she asked of her father, and in the tones of her voice there was an unusual gentleness, for just as she was dying Rose was learning to live.
For a time she had seemed so indifferent and obstinate, that Mrs.
Howland had almost despaired.

But night after night, when her daughter thought she slept, she prayed for the young girl, that she might not die until she had first learned the way of eternal life.

And, as if in answer to her prayers, Rose gradually began to listen, and as she listened, she wept, wondering though why her grandmother thought her so much more wicked than any one else.

Again, in a sudden burst of passion, she would send her from the room, saying, "she had heard preaching enough, for she wasn't going to die,--she wouldn't die any way." But at last such feelings passed away, and as the sun of her short life was setting, the sun of righteousness shone more and more brightly over her pathway, lighting her through the dark valley of death.

She no longer asked to be taken home, for she knew that could not be, but she wondered why her brother stayed so long from Glenwood, when he knew that she was dying.
On her return from the city, Jenny had told her as gently as possible of his conduct towards Ella, and of her fears that he was becoming more dissipated than ever.