She waited motionless, till his passion should subside, still holding his hands. He felt that her hands were so good.
“He is dead!” said Hugh, at last, with all effort, followed by a fresh outburst of weeping.
“Yes, he is dead,” rejoined Margaret, calmly. “You would not weep so if you had seen him die as I did—die with a smile like a summer sunset. Indeed, it was the sunset to me; but the moon has been up for a long time now.”
She sighed a gentle, painless sigh, and smiled again like a saint. She spoke nearly as Scotch as ever in tone, though the words and pronunciation were almost pure English.—This lapse into so much of the old form, or rather garment, of speech, constantly recurred, as often as her feelings were moved, and especially when she talked to children.
“Forgive me,” said Hugh, once more.
“We are the same as in the old days,” answered Margaret; and Hugh was satisfied.
“How do you come to be here?” said Hugh, at last, after a silence.
“I will tell you all about that another time. Now I must give you Miss Cameron’s message. She is very sorry she cannot see you, but she is quite unable. Indeed, she is not out of bed. But if you could call to-morrow morning, she hopes to be better and to be able to see you. She says she can never thank you enough.”
The lamp burned yet fainter. Margaret went, and proceeded to trim it. The virgins that arose must have looked very lovely, trimming their lamps. It is a deed very fair and womanly—the best for a woman—to make the lamp burn. The light shone up in her face, and the hands removing the globe handled it delicately. He saw that the good hands were very beautiful hands; not small, but admirably shaped, and very pure. As she replaced the globe,—
“That man,” she said, “will not trouble her any more.”