and she of Anguish. Rose， after their separation， was longsecluded within the dwelling of Mr. Toothaker， whom shemarried with the revengeful hope of breaking her falselover’s heart. She went to her bridegroom’s arms withbitterer tears， they say， than young girls ought to shedat the threshold of the bridal-chamber. Yet， though herhusband’s head was getting gray and his heart had beenchilled with an autumnal frost， Rose soon began to lovehim， and wondered at her own conjugal affection. He wasall she had to love； there were no children.
In a year or two poor Mr. Toothaker was visited witha wearisome infirmity which settled in his joints andmade him weaker than a child. He crept forth about hisbusiness， and came home at dinner-time and eventide，not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife’s heart，but slowly， feebly， jotting down each dull footstep with amelancholy dub of his staff. We must pardon his prettywife if she sometimes blushed to own him. Her visitors，when they heard him coming， looked for the appearanceof some old， old man， but he dragged his nerveless limbsinto the parlor—and there was Mr. Toothaker！ The diseaseincreasing， he never went into the sunshine save with astaff in his right hand and his left on his wife’s shoulder，bearing heavily downward like a dead man’s hand. Thus， aslender woman still looking maiden-like， she supported histall， broad-chested frame along the pathway of their littlegarden， and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband，and spoke soothingly as to an infant. His mind was palsiedwith his body； its utmost energy was peevishness. In a fewmonths more she helped him up the staircase with a pauseat every step， and a longer one upon the landing-place， anda heavy glance behind as he crossed the threshold of hischamber. He knew， poor man！ that the precincts of thosefour walls would thenceforth be his world—his world， hishome， his tomb， at once a dwelling-and a burial-place—tillhe were borne to a darker and a narrower one. But Rosewas with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her in his dailypassage from the bed to the chair by the fireside， and backagain from the weary chair to the joyless bed—his bedand hers， their marriage-bed—till even this short journeyceased and his head lay all day upon the pillow and hersall night beside it. How long poor Mr. Toothaker was keptin misery！ Death seemed to draw near the door， and oftento lift the latch， and sometimes to thrust his ugly skullinto the chamber， nodding to Rose and pointing at herhusband， but still delayed to enter. “This bedridden wretchcannot escape me，” quoth Death. “I will go forth and runa race with the swift and fight a battle with the strong，and come back for Toothaker at my leisure.” Oh， when thedeliverer came so near， in the dull anguish of her worn-outsympathies did she never long to cry， “Death， come in ？”
But no； we have no right to ascribe such a wish to ourfriend Rose. She never failed in a wife’s duty to her poorsick husband. She murmured not though a glimpse ofthe sunny sky was as strange to her as him， nor answeredpeevishly though his complaining accents roused herfrom sweetest dream only to share his wretchedness.
He knew her faith， yet nourished a cankered jealousy；and when the slow disease had chilled all his heart saveone lukewarm spot which Death’s frozen fingers weresearching for， his last words were， “What would my Rosehave done for her first love， if she has been so true andkind to a sick old man like me？” And then his poor soulcrept away and left the body lifeless， though hardly moreso than for years before， and Rose a widow， though intruth it was the wedding-night that widowed her. She feltglad， it must be owned， when Mr. Toothaker was buried，because his corpse had retained such a likeness to the manhalf alive that she hearkened for the sad murmur of hisvoice bidding her shift his pillow. But all through the nextwinter， though the grave had held him many a month， shefancied him calling from that cold bed， “Rose， Rose！ Comeput a blanket on my feet！”