The lady opened her eyes.
“Come sit upon the bed beside me—sit so that I can see your face—give me your hand.”
Margaret obeyed, silently praying to God to give her strength to repress the flood of tears that were ready to gush forth.
“Little Margaret, for, though you are an affianced bride, you are still my little Margaret,” said the lady, closing her fingers upon the soft hand and gazing fondly into the dark, true, tender eyes of the maiden, “little Margaret, some time ago, when your loving heart led you to leave a festive scene to rejoin your lonely mother, and you surprised me prostrated with grief and dismay, you implored me to confide my sorrows to your faithful heart; and I told you that if ever I was driven to trust the terrible secret of my life to mortal man or woman, it should be to my loving, loyal child—only to her. You remember?”
“Oh, yes—yes, mamma!”
“That time has come, my dove! I have a precious trust to bequeath as a legacy to some one; it is a secret that has been the grief and bane and terror of my life; a secret that lies as yet between my soul and God; yet must I not go hence and leave no clew to its discovery.
“Little daughter—as I said once before—I love many; I worship one; I trust only you; for of all the people I have known, loved, and respected, you are the most true-hearted, I think also the wisest. Dear child, I will not bind you by any promise to keep the secret about to be entrusted to your charge, for I feel sure that for my sake you will keep it.”
“Through life and unto death, mamma; the rack should not wring it from me; may God so keep my soul as I shall keep your secret, mother.”
“Nay, nay, there is a contingency, my child, under which you might reveal it; and it is to provide for this possible contingency that I feel constrained to leave this secret with you.”
“I will be faithful, dearest mother.”