She had charged him with a message to me.
"Tell her," she had said, "I shall never forget what she did for me in the autumn, and whiles and whiles I'm thanking God for her."
That cut me to the quick, but I was nearly torn to pieces by what came next.
"Christian Ann told me to say too that Sunny Lodge is longing for you. 'She's a great lady now,' said she, 'but maybe great ladies have their troubles same as ourselves, poor things, and if she ever wants to rest her sweet head in a poor woman's bed, Mary O'Neill's little room is always waiting for her.'"
"God bless her!" I said—it was all I could say—and then, to my great relief, he talked on other subjects.
The one thing I was afraid of was that he might speak of Martin. Heaven alone, which looks into the deep places of a woman's heart in her hour of sorest trial, knows why I was in such dread that he might do so, but sure I am that if he had mentioned Martin at that moment I should have screamed.
When he rose to go he repeated his warnings.
"You'll remember what I said about being bright and cheerful?"
"I'll try."
"And keeping happy and agreeable faces about you?"