“Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?” said Oliver. “Two hours ago, she was quite well.”

“She is very ill now,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!”

She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.

“And consider, ma’am,” said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary; “oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure⁠—certain⁠—quite certain⁠—that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.”