The scene of our tale changes from the abode of wealth and fashion to the humble dwelling of poverty, with its trials and privations—from the exhibition of a spoiled and petted beauty’s vain and idle caprices, to the manifestations of a pure and noble spirit, oppressed by misfortune, yet true to its own high convictions of duty, gently submissive to the Divine hand which guided and sustained it, and ever shedding around its lowly sphere the light and peace of its own heavenly faith and love.

In a narrow cross-street of one of the most obscure suburbs of the city, stood a dilapidated house, the small attic of which was tenanted by an elderly man and his daughter, the former of whom was now lying motionless upon his bed, either insensible or asleep; and to judge from his wasted and ghastly appearance, approaching near the confines of that world where the weary spirit finds release and rest. Beside him, at a small table, sat a young girl of singularly sweet and interesting appearance, without what a common observer would designate beauty, and yet with “something than beauty dearer,” irradiating her calm, pure face; a soul-light from within, shining and giving to it that heavenly expression which reminded one of the angelic faces which beam from the breathing canvas of Raphael. Her soft, brown hair fell back in wavy curls from her smooth brow, and in her dark hazel-eyes, with their long-fringed drooping lids, there was a depth of unrevealed and gentle sensibilities, and a lurking tenderness around her mouth, which indicated timidity and sweetness—some might have thought it weakness, had not the slight and graceful curve of the upper lip rescued it from that suspicion—denoting a firm, if a gentle soul, and a courage strong to dare and endure in the path of woman’s duty, thorny and rugged though that path might chance to be.

On the small table before her lay a cluster of snow-white camelias, with a few other flowers of equal beauty. Whence, at so inclement a season, came those frail and delicate blossoms into that bare and lonely attic? A nearer glance informed the gazer that those lovely imitations of Nature’s fairest forms were of wax, moulded by the skill and taste of the young artist into such perfection as to deceive the most practiced eye. Thrown by a series of afflictive dispensations wholly upon her own resources for the support of her sick father and herself, Rosalie La Motte had exercised in turn her various accomplishments to avert the want and destitution which menaced her—but notwithstanding the elegance of the various articles which she produced, she found it difficult to obtain purchasers for them, though she did not hesitate to seek a sale for them at the shops, and even to offer them at the doors of some of the finest houses of the city. They were generally turned over with indifference and dismissed, or purchased at half their value, by those who thought more of making a good bargain than of aiding the pale and delicate girl who was so nobly struggling against poverty and misfortune.

In the disposal of her wax-flowers Rosalie had met with better success—they were too exquisite not to win admiration, and several had purchased single flowers or small bouquets without disputing the price, and so encouraged, when she could procure the materials, she continued, upon a small scale, her tasteful manufacture, and thus, for the present, was enabled to provide comforts for her father, and defray the trifling expenses of her humble home.

And thus to struggle on alone and unfriended, was indeed heroic in one born to better fortunes, and nurtured in a home of ease and indulgence, as was the young and gentle Rosalie. Early in life her father had emigrated from Lyons to New Orleans, where he established a mercantile house, which soon became one of the richest in the city. He married a lovely woman, and children gathered around him. But then troubles came, as they come to all—for they are part of life’s discipline, aiding us to solve its deep mysteries, and unveiling our spiritual sight to behold the glories of that higher life toward which the good and true are constantly ascending. An infant son died, and then a darling daughter, just budding into her tenth sweet summer. The mother was grief-stricken—the father’s energies paralyzed, and during this season of heavy trial, an ambitious and unprincipled partner of the house availed himself of the opportunity to embark in a daring and uncertain speculation, which failed, as might have been expected, involving the whole concern in irretrievable ruin.

The same messenger who brought these evil tidings to the unhappy merchant, then residing at his country seat, brought also letters from an uncle of Mr. La Motte’s on the mother’s side, who had been for many years a resident in Canada, engaged there in the lucrative North West trade. The communication from Mr. McMillan stated that he had now retired from active business, and having no home of his own, he wished his nephew to remove with his family to Montreal, that he might find one with those whom he intended as the heirs of his fortune.

Ruined in fortune, and broken down in spirit, Mr. La Motte resolved to accept his uncle’s cordial invitation, and accordingly wrote him to that effect, but unfortunately the letter never reached its destination. Again Mr. McMillan wrote, but by some untoward accident his letter went astray—and a rumor which soon after prevailed, owing to Mr. La Motte’s remaining in retirement, that he had returned with his family to France, reached the ears of his uncle, and prevented his writing again. In the meantime, the cholera broke out in the devoted city of Montreal, and Mr. McMillan was among its first victims. His life had not been such as to enable him to meet death in peace, and in the vain hope that he should thus make some atonement for his sins, he gave the whole of his property to the church, and died in the belief that its purchased masses would insure the safety of his soul.

Delayed by illness and other unforeseen causes, it was not till the autumn of that fatal year, that Mr. La Motte, with his wife and daughter, arrived in Montreal, only to meet new trial and disappointment, for the first answers to inquiries respecting his relative, informed him of his death, and the disposition of his entire property to the church. Thus left friendless, almost penniless, in a strange land, with a wife and child, bred in affluence, dependent upon him, the unfortunate La Motte was ready to sink beneath the heavy burden of his lot. But something must be done, so a small house was rented, and through the friendly services of a distant relative of his late uncle, Mr. La Motte obtained the situation of under-clerk, with a very moderate remuneration, in a mercantile house in the city.

It was a new position for one who had been for many prosperous years at the head of an extensive establishment of his own; but it averted immediate want, and enabled him to provide a shelter for those dear ones who leaned upon him—a humble one it is true, compared to the comfort and luxurious beauty of their southern home; but it was their own—and beautified by the wife’s patient sweetness, the daughter’s loving smiles and tender assiduities for the happiness of her parents, it became a haven of peace to the worn and weary man. So passed away the first year of their northern sojourn; but with the falling of the next autumn leaves, a gathering cloud threatened to overshadow their calm sky.

The change of climate and of circumstances had seriously affected Mrs. La Motte’s health—her step became feeble—a cough convulsed her slight frame, and the beautiful but fearful hectic of consumption lent its fatal lustre to her cheek and eye. She faded fast, and with the early snows of winter the broken-hearted husband and weeping daughter, saw her dear and cherished form borne forever from the humble home, which her presence had sanctified and blessed.

“Do not mourn thus bitterly, my Rosalie,” she said, on the day of her departure. “I am not leaving you, my child, but only passing from your outward sight, to be still nearer to you in thought and affection. This life, dearest, we have found one of trial and change—but we both believe that the one toward which I am rapidly advancing, upon which I shall soon enter, is one of beauty and of peace—of joy unspeakable and of endless development.”

“Yes, dear mamma, I know this,” said the weeping girl; “and for you I do rejoice—but oh, this seeming separation—how sad it is!” and a fresh burst of sorrow impeded her utterance.

“Ever think of it but as a seeming separation, for it is one only to the eye of sense,” said Mrs. La Motte. “That which we call death, dear Rosalie, is but a change in the mode of our existence—a continuation of life, higher, fuller, more free than that which we know here, in a world of light and beauty far more real than this.”

“Oh yes, dear mamma,” said Rosalie, “I dread death only because it severs the close-knit ties of earth—thanks to your teachings, I have always regarded it as a beautiful and benignant ministration of our Heavenly Father’s love—as the birth-day of the soul to a higher and happier life, without satiety or end. But this day, mamma, brings to me a double bereavement, for it is that on which our sweet Adalia left us—and now—and now—” She paused, covering her streaming eyes with her hand.

“Yes, and she is near me—very near—waiting to conduct me to her spirit-home,” said the mother, with a rapt look, as though she indeed gazed upon the form of her departed child—as who shall say she did not, or that our loved ones do not ever sit beside our dying pillow, as is the sweet belief, and a true one, as we think, of many.

“The dear rose-tree she planted,” resumed the dying mother, after a moment’s pause, “will soon be bright with blossoms, as on the day she left us—let its flowers, my Rosalie, cover my snowy grave, and on each anniversary of my departure, strew them there in remembrance of us both.”

“Yes—yes, dear mamma!” was all the sobbing girl could utter.

“Do so, darling child,” said the mother—“our spirits will be with you, my Rosalie—and never, never, dear one, forget while it lives, to cherish for her sweet sake, the rose-tree her young hand planted.”

“Never! my own mamma,” sobbed Rosalie; “for her dear sake and yours, it shall be a sacred thing to me always.”

It was on the first day of her illness that the little Adalia had planted this rose-tree, then a tiny thing; and before another spring came round, its flowers were strewn upon her grave. From that time the plant was watched with reverent care by the tender mother; and when she left her southern home for the colder north, this cherished thing accompanied her, though there were many others far more useful and costly that were necessarily left behind.

The death of his wife gave the final blow to Mr. La Motte’s health and spirits—still he struggled on, but evidently with a broken-heart, till finally a sudden paralysis, which partially affected the mind, and wholly prostrated the physical powers, laid him helpless upon a weary bed of pain. It was then, when every earthly stay seemed to have deserted her, that all the hidden strength and beauty of Rosalie’s character were developed.

Deprived at once of the power of active exertion, Mr. La Motte’s small income ceased—the house they occupied, humble as it was, could no longer be retained—and Rosalie, all inexperienced, felt the necessity of looking out for a less expensive abode. After long and patient search she at length discovered the old house with its unoccupied attic, where we have introduced her to the reader, and to which she removed her father, with the few articles of comfort and convenience she could afford to keep, and there for many months she had now toiled unremittingly for their support.

But amid all the toils and privations of her lot, her cheerfulness and serene temper remained unclouded—her patience unshaken—her trust and faith in her heavenly Father’s love and goodness, calm and unfaltering. Nor, helpless and often querulous through weariness and suffering as her father was, did she ever fail toward him in her task of duty, or in the constancy of her affection. He only, of the dear household band, remained to her; and the devotion she felt for him absorbed the whole of her being, except that higher sentiment which belonged to Him who had breathed into her an immortal spirit.

Her own frail and delicate appearance told, however, that the soul’s struggle for resignation and cheerfulness, though successful, had too terribly shaken the physical frame, ever to permit the flush of health and joy to invigorate it again. Short and quick, after every exertion, came the labored breath, and the slightest fatigue or emotion dyed the fair cheek with that brilliant hue, which they who know its fatal warning, tremble to behold.

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