And she was as good as she was pretty. It was the right sort of
goodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it to
keep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness.
Then she sent me out.
"I want to be alone my last hour," she said. "Kiss me, Aunt
Rachel--MOTHER Rachel."
When I'd gone down, crying like the old fool I was, I heard a rap
at the door. My first thought was to go out and send Isabella to
it, for I supposed it was Mark Foster, come ahead of time, and
small stomach I had for seeing him. I fall trembling, even yet,
when I think, "What if I had sent Isabella to that door?"
But go I did, and opened it, defiant-like, kind of hoping it was
Mark Foster to see the tears on my face. I opened it--and
staggered back like I'd got a blow.
"Owen! Lord ha' mercy on us! Owen!" I said, just like that,
going cold all over, for it's the truth that I thought it was his
spirit come back to forbid that unholy marriage.
But he sprang right in, and caught my wrinkled old hands in a
grasp that was of flesh and blood.
"Aunt Rachel, I'm not too late?" he said, savage-like. "Tell me
I'm in time."
I looked up at him, standing over me there, tall and handsome, no
change in him except he was so brown and had a little white scar
on his forehead; and, though I couldn't understand at all, being
all bewildered-like, I felt a great deep thankfulness.
"No, you're not too late," I said.
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