She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something

more yet to be said. Her voice was choked as she went on--was

quavering as with the contemplation of some strange, yet

closely-present idea.

'And, Margaret, if I am to die--if I am one of those appointed to

die before many weeks are over--I must see my child first. I

cannot think how it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret,

as you yourself hope for comfort in your last illness, bring him

to me that I may bless him. Only for five minutes, Margaret.

There could be no danger in five minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me

see him before I die!' Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly

unreasonable in this speech: we do not look for reason or logic

in the passionate entreaties of those who are sick unto death; we

are stung with the recollection of a thousand slighted

opportunities of fulfilling the wishes of those who will soon

pass away from among us: and do they ask us for the future

happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will it away

from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so just, so

right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's

account as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all

intermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do

everything in her power for its realisation. The large, pleading,

dilated eyes were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze,

though the poor white lips quivered like those of a child.

Margaret gently rose up and stood opposite to her frail mother;

so that she might gather the secure fulfilment of her wish from

the calm steadiness of her daughter's face.

'Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say. I

am as sure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my

life. Be easy, mamma, you shall see him as far as anything

earthly can be promised.' 'You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at

five--you will write by it, won't you? I have so few hours

left--I feel, dear, as if I should not recover, though sometimes

your father over-persuades me into hoping; you will write

directly, won't you? Don't lose a single post; for just by that

very post I may miss him.' 'But, mamma, papa is out.' 'Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me

this last wish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill--be dying--if

he had not taken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky,

sunless place.' 'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret.




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