Oh, Margaret, my precious child, I'd give my
heart's blood, drop by drop, to save you; but it can't be; you must
not wed your father's son; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!"
Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and when the last was
spoken she fell again upon her face, unconscious and forgetful of her
woe. Higher and higher in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing
across the window sill, and shining aslant the floor, where Hagar
still lay in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour passed on, and then the
wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes lighting up with
joy, as she whispered, "It was a dream, thank Heaven, 'twas a dream!"
and then growing dim with tears, as the dread reality came over her.
The first fearful burst of grief was passed, for Hagar now could weep,
and tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart. Not
for herself did she suffer so much as for Maggie, trembling for the
effect the telling of the secret would have on her. For it must be
told. She knew that full well, and as the sun fast neared the western
horizon, she murmured, "Oh, will she come to-night, will she come
to-night?"
Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when they backward
turn, will tread less joyously, are threading the woodland path. The
halfway rock is reached--nearer and nearer she comes--her shadow
falls across the floor--her hand is on your arm--her voice in your
ear--Maggie Miller is at your side--Heaven help you both!
CHAPTER XIX.
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