He
looked up at Rose, and tried to smile; but his lip only trembled.
She dipped the pen in the ink, and placed it in his hand. He bent
his head down quickly over the paper, so that she could not see
his face; but still he did not write his name. She put her hand
caressingly on his shoulder, and whispered to him:
"Come, come, humor 'Sister Rose.' She must have her own way now
she is back again at home."
He did not answer--his head sank lower--he hesitated for an
instant--then signed his name in faint, trembling characters, at
the end of the letter.
She drew it away from him gently. A few tear-drops lay on the
paper. As she dried them with her handkerchief she looked at her
brother.
"They are the last he shall ever shed, Louis; you and I will take
care of that!"
EPILOGUE TO THE THIRD STORY.
I have now related all that is eventful in the history of SISTER
ROSE. To the last the three friends dwelt together happily in the
cottage on the river bank. Mademoiselle Clairfait was fortunate
enough to know them, before Death entered the little household
and took away, in the fullness of time, the eldest of its
members. She describes Lomaque, in her quaint foreign English, as
"a brave, big heart"; generous, affectionate, and admirably free
from the small obstinacies and prejudices of old age, except on
one point: he could never be induced to take his coffee, of an
evening, from any other hand than the hand of Sister Rose.
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