"
"But what did you say to him? tell me what you said to him. He was my
own son, my only son. He was stubborn, and self-willed, but still he was
my son; and his words were sweeter to me than music, and his face was
brighter to me than the light of heaven. If you made him happy before
he died, I will kneel down and worship you," and joining her skinny
hands together, she laid them upon Agatha's knees. "Come, sweetest, tell
me what answer you made my poor boy when he told you that he loved you."
"It is a fearful thing, you know, to speak to a dying man," answered
Agatha. "You must not suppose that we were talking as though he were
still in the prime of health and strength--"
"But what did you say to him? you said something. You did not, at any
rate, bid him remember that he was a poor labouring man, and that you
were a lady of high rank."
"We neither of us thought of those things then. I do not know what it
was I said, but I strove to say the truth. I strove to make him
understand how much I valued, esteemed--and loved him.
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