It was a morning in the month of May—
The naked twigs were shivering all for cold—
when Donal, who had been with Arctura the greater part of the night, and now lay on the couch in a neighbouring room, heard Mrs. Brookes call him.
“My lady wants you, sir,” she said.
He started up, and went to her.
“Send for the minister,” she whispered, “—not Mr. Carmichael; he does not know you. Send for Mr. Graeme too: he and mistress Brookes will be witnesses. I must call you husband once before I die!”
“I hope you will many a time after!” he returned.
She smiled on him with a look of love unutterable.
“Mind,” she said, holding out her arms feebly, but drawing him fast to her bosom, “that this is how I love you! When you see me dull and stupid, and I hardly look at you—for though death makes bright, dying makes stupid—then say to yourself, ‘This is not how she loves me; it is only how she is dying! She loves me and knows it—and by and by will be able to show it!’”
They were precious words both then and afterwards!