Margaret buried her face in her hands, and for some time could not reply.
“I don't wish, darlin',” said he, “to cause you sorrow—you will have too much of that; but I ax it as a favor—the last from my lips—that you will now cut off a lock of his hair—his hair fair—an' put it along with your own upon my heart; it's all I'll have of you both in the grave where I'll sleep; and, Margaret, do it now—oh, do it soon.”
Margaret, who always carried scissors hanging by her pocket, took them out, and cutting a long abundant lock of the boy's hair, she tenderly placed it where he wished, in a little three-cornered bit of black silk that was suspended from his neck, and lay upon his heart.
“Is it done?” said he.
“It is done,” she replied as well as she could!
“This, you know, is to lie on my heart,” said he, “when I'm in my grave; you won't forget that!”
“No—oh, no, no; but, merciful God, support me! for Art, my husband, my life, I don't know how I'll part with you.”
“Well, may God bless you forever, my darlin' wife, and support you and my orphans! Bring them here.”
They were then brought over, and in a very feeble voice he blessed them also.
“Now, forgive me all,” said he, “forgive ME ALL!”