“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a great comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own room was every way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come, and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was changed from the Margaret who stood upon the piazza and said good-by one morning last June. The long curls were all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so unnaturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I liked her face better than ever before. There was less of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest in others.
“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms about my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by so endearing a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love mightier than any I had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the harsh things written against my dying sister.
“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon, very soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the same pinched look I had seen on father and Robin just before the great destroyer came.
“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was afraid I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell you how sorry I am for the past. I did not make your home with me as happy as I might. Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much. He says I never did, but I know better. I’ve thought it all over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry to have me die as I should if it were you.’
“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,—but she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the little life which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and then floated away to the next.
“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore your name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’
“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her talking, I was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was heard in the hall, speaking to the chamber-maid.
“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back and settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I replied:
“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I came with them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’
“‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she whistles, and romps with the dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk hip-pi-ti-hop, and up the stairs two at a time; and joked with John about being his second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right before me!’ and Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her horror at this last-named sin of Jessie’s.