“Then you do intend to marry?” asked Hanna, with a smile.
“Why do you ask that, Hanna?”
“Why, because you've given me sich a fine description of the kind o' man your husband is to be.”
“Hanna,” she replied, solemnly, “look at my cheek, look at my eye, look at my whole figure, and then ask me that question again if you can. Don't you see, darling, that death is upon me? I feel it.”
Her loving and beloved sister threw her arms around her neck, and burst into an irrepressible fit of bitter grief.
“Oh, you are changed, most woefully, Kathleen, darlin',” she exclaimed, kissing her tenderly; “but if you could only bear up now, time would set everything right, and bring you about right, as it will still, I hope.”
Her sister mused for some time, and then added—“I think I could bear up yet if he was to stay in the country; but when I recollect that he's going to another land—forever—I feel that my heart is broken: as it is, his disgrace and that thought are both killin' me. To-morrow the auction comes on, and then he goes—after that I will never see him. I'm afraid, Hanna, that I'll have to go to bed; I feel that I'm hardly able to sit up.”
Hanna once more pressed her to her heart and wept.
“Don't cry, Hanna dear—don't cry for me; the bitterest part of my fate will be partin' from you.”
Hanna here pressed her again and wept aloud, whilst her spotless and great-minded sister consoled her as well as she could. “Oh, what would become of me!” exclaimed Hanna, sobbing; “if anything was to happen you, or take you away from me, it would break my heart, too, and I'd die.”