She had not mentioned his name for years. I thought she had
forgotten all about him.
"Oh, dear sister, is there any need of such a promise?" I asked,
weeping. "Hugh Blair does not want to marry me now. He never
will again."
"He has never married--he has not forgotten you," she said
fiercely. "I could not rest in my grave if I thought you would
disgrace your family by marrying beneath you. Promise me,
Margaret."
I promised. I would have promised anything in my power to make
her dying pillow easier. Besides, what did it matter? I was
sure that Hugh would never think of me again.
She smiled when she heard me, and pressed my hand.
"Good little sister--that is right. You were always a good girl,
Margaret--good and obedient, though a little sentimental and
foolish in some ways. You are like our mother--she was always
weak and loving. I took after the Merediths."
She did, indeed. Even in her coffin her dark, handsome features
preserved their expression of pride and determination. Somehow,
that last look of her dead face remained in my memory, blotting
out the real affection and gentleness which her living face had
almost always shown me. This distressed me, but I could not help
it. I wished to think of her as kind and loving, but I could
remember only the pride and coldness with which she had crushed
out my new-born happiness. Yet I felt no anger or resentment
towards her for what she had done.
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