"It is not weakness," said the woman, "to desire life, and to respect
it enough...." Tears gathered in the pale, aged eyes that had lost
their hard luster. "I fear I have done you a grievous ill. Forgive
me!" And she hid her face, ashamed.
And for all the pain this woman had caused her, all the mother's love
withheld for so many years, Mary found herself unable to return the
injury, now that the chance had come. She went to the old woman
slowly, took down the trembling hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
"You are what your life has made you. Of course I forgive you. And
I'll make your promise, if you'll make me one in return." Her mother
nodded helplessly. "Will you promise to rest, and be gentle with
yourself, until I can send a doctor back to check on you?"
... "Yes."
"All right, then. Let me help you to bed, then I'll build up the fire
one last time." Her mother was unable to reply. And having done what
she said, Mary left her with those words.
Margaret MacCain died three hours later, as a black curtain descended
slowly across the field of her vision.
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