dear reader,
just one year ago to-night the orange wreath and bridal veil were twined among my curls, and with a loving heart i stood up before the man of god and took upon myself the vows, which made me richard’s forever. the orange flowers are faded now, and the bridal veil looks soiled and worn; but the sunlight of happiness which shone upon me when first he called me his wife has grown brighter and brighter as each day has unfolded to me some new virtue which i knew not that he possessed when, he became my husband.
no shadow, however slight, has ever fallen between us, for though he has a fiery temper and an indomitable will, they are both under perfect control, and so much confidence have i in his love for me, that should i ever in any way come in collision with his temper or his will, i have faith to believe i could bend the one and subdue the other. every comfort and luxury which affection can dictate or money procure has been gathered around me, until my home seems to me a second paradise.
the fervid heat of summer has passed, and the hazy light which betokens the fall of the leaf has come. on the northern hills, they say, the november snows have already fallen, but we are still basking in the soft sunlight of a most glorious 379autumn; and as i write, the south wind comes in through the open window, whispering to me of the fading flowers, whose perfume it gathered as it floated along. just opposite me, in a willow chair, with her head buried in a towering turban of royal purple, sits juno, a middle aged woman, nodding to the breeze, which occasionally brushes past her so fast that she lazily opens her eyes, and with her long-heeled foot gives a jog to the rosewood crib, wherein lies sleeping a little tiny thing which was left here five weeks ago to-day. oh, how odd and funny it seemed when richard first laid on my arm a little bundle of cambric and lace, and whispered in my ear, “would you like to see our baby?” she is a great pet, and should this book never reach so far as georgia, mrs. lansing, i am sure, will like me all the same, for her words and manner have been very kind since the morning when i said to richard, “we will call our baby jessie.”
so jessie was she baptized, mrs. lansing’s tears falling like rain on the face of the unconscious child, which she folded to her bosom as tenderly as if it had indeed been her own lost jessie come back to her again. upon ada the arrival of the stranger produced a novel effect, overwhelming her with such a load of modesty that she kept out of richard’s way nearly two weeks, and never once came to see me until i was sitting up in my merino morning gown, which she had embroidered for me herself. ada has a very nice sense of propriety!
but little more remains for me to say, and that i must say briefly. i am determined to finish my story, and as my husband for the first time since my illness has left me alone for an hour or two, i am improving the opportunity, having first bribed bertha to bring me my writing materials, by promising her a dress which she has long coveted.
the royal purple turban by the window has become somewhat 380displaced by the strong west wind, and now wide awake, begins to grumble at “miss rosy’s impudence in ’xertin’ herself to write trash which is of no kind o’ count, and which no human will ever read.”
i hope her prediction is a false one, for i have lately conceived the idea of devoting the entire proceeds of this book to the benefit of rosa lee, who, of course, has no part in the $10,000 which her father has married!
there is a rustling in the crib—the baby is waking, and at my request juno brings her to me, saying as she lays her on my lap, “she’s the berry pictur’ of t’other jessie,” and as her soft blue eyes unclose and my hand rests on her curly hair which begins to look golden in the sunlight, i, too, think the same, and with a throbbing heart i pray the father to save her from the early death which came to our lost darling—“jessie, the angel of the pines.”
rose delafield.
finis.
