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 his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple,—childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike,—a serious soul lights them,—a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either,—stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Rose is a still, sometimes, a stubborn girl now: her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself,—a woman of dark and dreary duties,—and Rose has a mind full-set, thick sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance, and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.

He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch—original even now; passionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting yet generous; fearless—of her mother for