Rose Budd had been ministering to the ungainly externals of Jack Tier.  She now wore a cap, thus concealing the short, grey bristles of hair, and lending to her countenance a little of that softness which is a requisite of female character.  Some attention had also been paid to the rest of her attire; and Jack was, altogether, less repulsive in her exterior than when, unaided, she had attempted to resume the proper garb of her sex.  Use and association, too, had contributed a little to revive her woman’s nature, if we may so express it, and she had begun, in particular, to feel the sort of interest in her patient which we all come in time to entertain toward any object of our especial care.  We do not mean that Jack had absolutely ever ceased to love her husband; strange as it may seem, such had not literally been the case; on the contrary, her interest in him and in his welfare had never ceased, even while she saw his vices and detested his crimes; but all we wish to say here is, that she was getting, in addition to the long-enduring feelings of a wife, some of the interest of a nurse.

During the whole time which had elapsed between Jack’s revealing her true character, and the moment of which we are now writing, Spike had not once spoken to his wife.  Often had she caught his eyes intently riveted on her, when he would turn them away, as she feared, in distaste; and once or twice he groaned deeply, more like a man who suffered mental than bodily pain.  Still the patient did not speak once in all the time mentioned.  We should be representing poor Jack as possessing more philosophy, or less feeling, than the truth would warrant, were we to say that she was not hurt at this conduct in her husband.

On the contrary, she felt it deeply; and more than once it had so far subdued her pride, as to cause her bitterly to weep.  This shedding of tears, however, was of service to Jack in one sense, for it had the effect of renewing old impressions, and in a certain way, of reviving the nature of her sex within her—­a nature which had been sadly weakened by her past life.

But the hour had at length come when this long and painful silence was to be broken.  Jack and Rose were alone with the patient, when the last again spoke to his wife.

“Molly—­poor Molly!” said the dying man, his voice continuing full and deep to the last, “what a sad time you must have had of it after I did you that wrong!”

“It is hard upon a woman, Stephen, to turn her out, helpless, on a cold and selfish world,” answered Jack, simply, much too honest to affect a reserve she did not feel.

“It was hard, indeed; may God forgive me for it, as I hope ye do, Molly.”

No answer was made to this appeal; and the invalid looked anxiously at his wife.  The last sat at her work, which had now got to be less awkward to her, with her eyes bent on her needle,—­her countenance rigid, and, so far as the eye could discern, her feelings unmoved.