“He has so promised,” answered Maggie; and Hagar continued:  “He will take you to England, and you will be a lady, sure.  Margaret, listen to me.  ’Tis the last time we shall ever talk together, you and I, and I am glad that it is so.  I have greatly sinned, but I have been forgiven, and I am willing now to die.  Everything I wished for has come to pass, even the hearing you call me by that blessed name; but, Maggie, when to-morrow they say that I am dead—­when you come down to look upon me lying here asleep, you needn’t call me ‘Grandmother,’ you may say ‘poor Hagar!’ with the rest; and, Maggie, is it too much to ask that your own hands will arrange my hair, fix my cap, and straighten my poor old crooked limbs for the coffin?  And if I should look decent, will you, when nobody sees you do it—­Madam Conway, Arthur Carrollton, nobody who is proud—­will you, Maggie, kiss me once for the sake of what I’ve suffered that you might be what you are?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” was Maggie’s answer, her tears falling fast, and a fear creeping into her heart, as by the dim candlelight she saw a nameless shadow settling down on Hagar’s face.

The servant entered at this moment, and, glancing at old Hagar, sunk into a chair, for she knew that shadow was death.

“Maggie,” and the voice was now a whisper, “I wish I could once more see this Mr. Carrollton.  ’Tis the nature of his kin to be sometimes overbearing, and though I am only old Hagar Warren he might heed my dying words, and be more thoughtful of your happiness.  Do you think that he would come?”

Ere Maggie had time to answer there was a step upon the floor, and Arthur Carrollton stood at her side.  He had waited for her long, and growing at last impatient had stolen to the open door, and when the dying woman asked for him he had trampled down his pride and entered the humble room.  Winding his arm round Margaret, who trembled violently, he said:  “Hagar, I am here.  Have you aught to say to me?”

Quickly the glazed eyes turned towards him, and the clammy hand was timidly extended.  He took it unhesitatingly, while the pale lips murmured faintly, “Maggie’s too.”  Then, holding both between her own, old Hagar said solemnly, “Young man, as you hope for heaven, deal kindly with my child,” and Arthur Carrollton answered her aloud, “As I hope for heaven, I will,” while Margaret fell upon her knees and wept.  Raising herself in bed, Hagar laid her hands upon the head of the kneeling girl, breathing over her a whispered blessing; then the hands pressed heavily, the fingers clung with a loving grasp, as it were, to the bands of shining hair—­the thin lips ceased to move—­the head fell back upon the pillow, motionless and still, and Arthur Carrollton, leading Margaret away, gently told her that Hagar was dead.

* * * * *