There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy than，while gazing at a figure of melancholy age， to recreate itsyouth， and without entirely obliterating the identity ofform and features to restore those graces which Time hassnatched away. Some old people—especially women—soage-worn and woeful are they， seem never to have beenyoung and gay. It is easier to conceive that such gloomyphantoms were sent into the world as withered anddecrepit as we behold them now， with sympathies onlyfor pain and grief， to watch at death-beds and weep atfunerals. Even the sable garments of their widowhoodappear essential to their existence； all their attributescombine to render them darksome shadows creepingstrangely amid the sunshine of human life. Yet it is nounprofitable task to take one of these doleful creaturesand set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye，and darken the silvery locks， and paint the ashen cheekwith rose-color， and repair the shrunken and crazy form，till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron’s elbowchair.
The miracle being wrought， then let the years rollback again， each sadder than the last， and the wholeweight of age and sorrow settle down upon the youthfulfigure. Wrinkles and furrows， the handwriting of Time，may thus be deciphered and found to contain deep lessonsof thought and feeling.
Such profit might be derived by a skilful observer frommy much-respected friend the Widow Toothaker， a nurseof great repute who has breathed the atmosphere of sickchambersand dying-breaths these forty years.
See！ she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth withher gown and upper petticoat drawn upward， gatheringthriftily into her person the whole warmth of the firewhich now at nightfall begins to dissipate the autumnalchill of her chamber. The blaze quivers capriciously infront， alternately glimmering into the deepest chasmsof her wrinkled visage， and then permitting a ghostlydimness to mar the outlines of her venerable figure. AndNurse Toothaker holds a teaspoon in her right hand withwhich to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left，whence steams a vapory fragrance abhorred of temperancesocieties. Now she sips， now stirs， now sips again. Hersad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusionof Geneva which is mixed half and half with hot water inthe tumbler. All day long she has been sitting by a deathpillow，and quitted it for her home only when the spiritof her patient left the clay and went homeward too. Butnow are her melancholy meditations cheered and hertorpid blood warmed and her shoulders lightened of atleast twenty ponderous years by a draught from the truefountain of youth in a case-bottle. It is strange that menshould deem that fount a fable， when its liquor fills morebottles than the Congress-water. —Sip it again， goodnurse， and see whether a second draught will not take offanother score of years， and perhaps ten more， and showus in your high-backed chair the blooming damsel whoplighted troths with Edward Fane. Get you gone， Ageand Widowhood！ Come back， unwedded Youth！ But， alas！
the charm will not work. In spite of Fancy’s most potentspell， I can see only an old dame cowering over the fire，a picture of decay and desolation， while the Novemberblast roars at her in the chimney and fitful showers rushsuddenly against the window.
Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton—such wasthe pretty maiden-name of Nurse Toothaker—possessedbeauty that would have gladdened this dim and dismalchamber as with sunshine. It won for her the heart ofEdward Fane， who has since made so great a figure in theworld and is now a grand old gentleman with powderedhair and as gouty as a lord. These early lovers thoughtto have walked hand in hand through life. They hadwept together for Edward’s little sister Mary， whomRose tended in her sickness—partly because she wasthe sweetest child that ever lived or died， but more forlove of him. She was but three years old. Being such aninfant， Death could not embody his terrors in her littlecorpse； nor did Rose fear to touch the dead child’s brow，though chill， as she curled the silken hair around it， norto take her tiny hand and clasp a flower within its fingers.
Afterward， when she looked through the pane of glass inthe coffin-lid and beheld Mary’s face， it seemed not somuch like death or life as like a wax-work wrought intothe perfect image of a child asleep and dreaming of itsmother’s smile. Rose thought her too fair a thing to behidden in the grave， and wondered that an angel did notsnatch up little Mary’s coffin and bear the slumbering babeto heaven and bid her wake immortal. But when the sodswere laid on little Mary， the heart of Rose was troubled.
She shuddered at the fantasy that in grasping the child’scold fingers her virgin hand had exchanged a first greetingwith mortality and could never lose the earthy taint. Howmany a greeting since！ But as yet she was a fair young girlwith the dewdrops of fresh feeling in her bosom， and，instead of “Rose” —which seemed too mature a name forher half-opened beauty—her lover called her “Rosebud.”
The rosebud was destined never to bloom for EdwardFane. His mother was a rich and haughty dame with allthe aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. She scornedRose Grafton’s humble parentage and caused her son tobreak his faith， though， had she let him choose， he wouldhave prized his Rosebud above the richest diamond. Thelovers parted， and have seldom met again. Both may havevisited the same mansions， but not at the same time， forone was bidden to the festal hall and the other to the sickchamber；he was the guest of Pleasure and Prosperity，
