So now the Rosebud was the widow Toothaker. Hertroubles had come early， and， tedious as they seemed， hadpassed before all her bloom was fled. She was still fairenough to captivate a bachelor， or with a widow’s cheerfulgravity she might have won a widower， stealing into hisheart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the widowToothaker had no such projects. By her watchings andcontinual cares her heart had become knit to her firsthusband with a constancy which changed its very natureand made her love him for his infirmities， and infirmityfor his sake. When the palsied old man was gone， evenher early lover could not have supplied his place. She haddwelt in a sick-chamber and been the companion of ahalf-dead wretch till she could scarcely breathe in a freeair and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. Shemissed the fragrance of the doctor’s stuff. She walkedthe chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors came in，she spoke in soft and soothing accents， and was startledand shocked by their loud voices. Often in the lonesomeevening she looked timorously from the fireside to thebed， with almost a hope of recognizing a ghastly face uponthe pillow. Then went her thoughts sadly to her husband’sgrave. If one impatient throb had wronged him in hislifetime， if she had secretly repined because her buoyantyouth was imprisoned with his torpid age， if ever whileslumbering beside him a treacherous dream had admittedanother into her heart， —yet the sick man had beenpreparing a revenge which the dead now claimed. On hispainful pillow he had cast a spell around her； his groansand misery had proved more captivating charms thangayety and youthful grace； in his semblance Disease itselfhad won the Rosebud for a bride， nor could his death dissolvethe nuptials. By that indissoluble bond she had gained ahome in every sick-chamber， and nowhere else； there wereher brethren and sisters； thither her husband summonedher with that voice which had seemed to issue from thegrave of Toothaker. At length she recognized her destiny.
We have beheld her as the maid， the wife， the widow；now we see her in a separate and insulated character： shewas in all her attributes Nurse Toothaker. And NurseToothaker alone， with her own shrivelled lips， could makeknown her experience in that capacity. What a historymight she record of the great sicknesses in which shehas gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel！ Sheremembers when the small-pox hoisted a red banner onalmost every house along the street. She has witnessedwhen the typhus fever swept off a whole household， youngand old， all but a lonely mother， who vainly shriekedto follow her last loved one. Where would be Death’striumph if none lived to weep？ She can speak of strangemaladies that have broken out as if spontaneously， butwere found to have been imported from foreign landswith rich silks and other merchandise， the costliestportion of the cargo. And once， she recollects， the peopledied of what was considered a new pestilence， till thedoctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl whothus caused many deaths a hundred years after her ownburial. Strange that such black mischief should lurk ina maiden’s grave！ She loves to tell how strong men fightwith fiery fevers， utterly refusing to give up their breath，and how consumptive virgins fade out of the world，scarcely reluctant， as if their lovers were wooing them toa far country. —Tell us， thou fearful woman； tell us thedeath-secrets. Fain would I search out the meaning ofwords faintly gasped with intermingled sobs and brokensentences half-audibly spoken between earth and thejudgment-seat.
An awful woman！ She is the patron-saint of youngphysicians and the bosom-friend of old ones. In themansions where she enters the inmates provide themselvesblack garments； the coffin-maker follows her， and thebell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Deathhimself has met her at so many a bedside that he putsforth his bony hand to greet Nurse Toothaker. She is anawful woman. And oh， is it conceivable that this handmaidof human infirmity and affliction—so darkly stained， sothoroughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doomof mortals—can ever again be bright and gladsome eventhough bathed in the sunshine of eternity？ By her longcommunion with woe has she not forfeited her inheritanceof immortal joy？ Does any germ of bliss survive withinher？
Hark！ an eager knocking st Nurse Toothaker’s door.
She starts from her drowsy reverie， sets aside the emptytumbler and teaspoon， and lights a lamp at the dim embersof the fire. “Rap， rap， rap！” again， and she hurries adownthe staircase， wondering which of her friends can be atdeath’s door now， since there is such an earnest messengerat Nurse Toothaker’s. Again the peal resounds just as herhand is on the lock. “Be quick， Nurse Toothaker！” cries aman on the doorstep. “Old General Fane is taken with thegout in his stomach and has sent for you to watch by hisdeath-bed. Make haste， for there is no time to lose.” —“Fane！ Edward Fane！ And has he sent for me at last？ I amready. I will get on my cloak and begone. So，” adds thesable-gowned， ashen-visaged， funereal old figure， “EdwardFane remembers his Rosebud.”
Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss withinher. Her long-hoarded constancy， her memory of the blissthat was remaining amid the gloom of her after-life likea sweet-smelling flower in a coffin， is a symbol that allmay be renewed. In some happier clime the Rosebud mayrevive again with all the dewdrops in its bosom.
