We buried the little child on the Tuesday morning, when the sun was
shining and the birds were singing in the trees, and on the Saturday
they told us his mother could not live.

It was early on the dawn of the Sunday morning when they sent for me.
She was dying, and wished to speak to me.

I went into her room. Clare knelt by her side. She turned her white face
to me with a smile.

"Edgar," she said, "I am glad you have come. I want to--to die in your
arms. Bend down to me," she whispered. "I want to speak to you. Will you
forgive me? I can see now how wrong I was, how wicked to love you so
much, and how wicked to tell you so. Will you forgive me, and now that I
am dying say one kind word to me, and tell me you can respect me in
death?"

I pillowed that dying head on my arm, and told her I should only
remember of her what had been kind and good.

"You will only remember that I loved you, Edgar, not that I was
unwomanly and wicked?"

"I will forget everything, except that you were my dear cousin and dear
friend."

"You will marry Agatha," she said, faintly, "and bring her home here. I
hope you will be happy; but, oh! Edgar--Edgar--when she is your wife,
and you are so happy together, you will not forget me; you will stroll