Had cousin John no war to wage with self? Could the long-hoarded hope of years be relinquished without a struggle? Could blissful days and nights, in which to breathe the same air with Rose, win even the faintest smile, were reward enough for any toil,—could such memories cease at once to thrill? Could he see that smile, in all its brightness, beaming upon another?—hear that voice ten fold more musically modulated whispering (not for him) words he would have died to hear—and not feel a pang bitter as death? Tell me, ye who have made earth-idols only to see them pass away?

No—cousin John felt all this; Rose lost all was lost—nothing to toil for—nothing to hope for—nothing to live for.

Was it indeed so? He dashed the unmanly tears away. Was he, indeed, such a poor, selfish driveler that the happiness of her whom he loved was less dear to him than his own? Was it no joy to see that sweet eye brighten with hope, though kindled by another? Was it nothing to see the shadow of shame pass from that fair brow, and see it lifted in the world's scornful face in loving pride to him who rightfully called her "wife?" Was it nothing that Charley's little heaving heart had found his own papa?

"Shame—shame—was his manly heart powerless to bear what she, whom he so loved, had borne in all her woman's feebleness?"

"I knew it would be so, John," said Gertrude, gazing into her brother's calm face, in which the traces of suffering still lingered. "I knew you could conquer"—and tears of sympathy fell upon the hand she pressed.