er to them, these people here; I
_cannot_ die and do that. Garda is not a usual girl, Margaret--you must
have seen it for yourself. I only want a little oversight of the proper
kind for her; that would be all that I should ask; it would not be a
_great_ deal of care. From the very first, Margaret, I have liked you so
much! You have no idea how much." Her voice died away, but her eyes were
full of eloquence. Slowly a tear rose in each, welled over, and dropped
down on the white cheek below, but without dimming the gaze, which
continued its fixed, urgent prayer.

Margaret had remained silent. Now she covered her face with her hand,
the elbow supported on the palm of the other. Mrs. Thorne watched her,
mutely; she seemed to feel that she had made her appeal, that Margaret
comprehended it, was perhaps considering it; at any rate, that her place
now was to wait with humility for her answer.

At length Margaret's hand dropped. She turned towards the waiting eyes.
"Before your illness, Mrs. Thorne," she said, in her tranquil voice, "I
had thought of asking you whether you would be willing to let me take
Garda north with me for some months. I have a friend in New York who
would receive her, and be very kind to her; she could stay with this
lady, and take lessons. I should see her every day, it would not be
quite like a school."

"That is what I long for--that she should be with you," said Mrs.
Thorne, not going into the details of the plan, but seizing upon the
main fact. "That _you_ should have charge of her, Margaret--that is now
my passionate wish." She used the strongest word she knew, a word she
had always thought wicked in its intensity. But it was applicable to her
present overwhelming desire.

"And I had thought that perhaps you would follow us, a little later,"
pursued Margaret; "I hope you will do so still."

Mrs. Thorne made a motion with her hand, as if saying, "Why try to
deceive?" She lay with her eyes closed, resting after her suspense. "You
are so good and kind," she murmured. "But not kinder, Margaret, than I
knew you would be." Her voice died away again, and again she rested.

"I have asked and accepted so much--for of course I accept instantly
your offer--that I feel that I ought not to ask more," she began again,
though without opening her eyes. "But I have got to die. And I _trust_
you so, Margaret--"

"Why do you trust me?" interposed Margaret, abruptly. "You have no
grounds for it; you hardly know