fulfilling poor Prissie's dying wish...."

Poor Prissie's dying wish. After what she had done for Prissie, if she
_had_ a dying wish--But neither of them had thought of her. Robin had
forgotten her.... Forgotten.... Forgotten.

But no. Priscilla had remembered. She had left her the locket with his
hair in it. She had remembered and she had been afraid; jealous of her.
She couldn't bear to think that Robin might marry her, even after she was
dead. She had made him marry this Walker woman so that he shouldn't----

Oh, but he wouldn't. Not after twenty years.

"I didn't really think he would."

She was forty-five, her face was lined and pitted and her hair was dust
color, streaked with gray: and she could only think of Robin as she had
last seen him, young: a young face; a young body; young, shining eyes. He
would want to marry a young woman. He had been in love with this Walker
woman, and Prissie had known it. She could see Prissie lying in her bed,
helpless, looking at them over the edge of the white sheet. She had known
that as soon as she was dead, before the sods closed over her grave, they
would marry. Nothing could stop them. And she had tried to make herself
believe it was her wish, her doing, not theirs. Poor little Prissie.

She understood that Robin had been staying in Sidmouth for his health.

A year later, Harriett, run down, was ordered to the seaside. She went to
Sidmouth. She told herself that she wanted to see the place where she had
been so happy with her mother, where poor Aunt Harriett had died.