Instead, her husband was probably wise. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been.
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