and convince himself that she cannot be injured here," was the immediate answer.
When Isabella again became regular in her visits, the marchese took that opportunity for taking the air his long watchings and deep solicitude really required; and twice during these absences was Isabella enabled to bring, for a few minutes, poor Glentworth to the couch of his dying Margarita, whilst, with a beating heart, she watched in the anteroom and listened for servants' footsteps; happily none approached—the attendants were glad to avail themselves of the temporary relief her presence gave them.
Poor Margarita's flitting life appeared to concentrate all its powers for this long desired visit, and her eyes seemed to emit a supernatural light, when they were indeed assured that Glentworth stood before her; seizing his hand with her thin fingers, she drew the sorrow-stricken, silent, statue (which yet lived and suffered in every vein), before her, and hastily besought his forgiveness for the injuries she had inflicted on him, and for which her death could not atone, though it was, doubtless, the sacrifice. She then, without waiting for reply, besought him to take her father to England, and cherish him as a son, for her sake, saying, "Margaret, my Margaret and yours, will, I know, supply my place to him, not less than to you, for she is an angel, whom I will have you love—yes, your dying Margarita tells you to love, as you once loved her, entirely, devotedly!"
