At all events, she died as she had lived, loyal and uncomplaining.
She died alone, for her husband was away on a concert tour,
and her illness was so brief that her father had not time
to reach her before the end. Her body was taken home to be
buried beside her mother in the little Carmody churchyard.
Mr. Leonard wished to take the child, but Martin Moore refused
to give him up.
Six years later Moore, too, died, and at last Mr. Leonard
had his heart's desire--the possession of Margaret's son.
The grandfather awaited the child's coming with mingled feelings.
His heart yearned for him, yet he dreaded to meet a second
edition of Martin Moore. Suppose Margaret's son resembled his
handsome vagabond of a father! Or, worse still, suppose he were
cursed with his father's lack of principle, his instability,
his Bohemian instincts. Thus Mr. Leonard tortured himself
wretchedly before the coming of Felix.
The child did not look like either father or mother.
Instead, Mr. Leonard found himself looking into a face
which he had put away under the grasses thirty years before--
the face of his girl bride, who had died at Margaret's birth.
Here again were her lustrous gray-black eyes, her ivory outlines,
her fine-traced arch of brow; and here, looking out of those eyes,
seemed her very spirit again.
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