"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 out sometimes when the dew is falling to look at my grave and say, 'Poor Coralie! how well she loved me—so well—so dearly!' You will do that, Edgar?"
My tears were falling warm and fast on her face.
"Are these your tears? Then you care a little for me. Ah, then, I am willing to die!"
And so, with her head pillowed on my arm, and a smile on her lips, she died.
We buried her by the side of Miles Trevelyan. After life's fitful fever she sleeps well.
From the first hour of her illness the doctor had no hope for her. I learned afterward that for some time before the child took the fever she had been ailing and ill.
It was such a strange life. Thinking over it afterward, it seemed to me more like romance than reality.
A year passed before the dream of my life was fulfilled and Agatha came to Crown Anstey. I need not to say how happy we were.