She was a niece of our shepherd's wife,
an Argentine woman married to an Englishman, and came to us to look
after the smaller children. She was nineteen years old, a pale, slim,
pretty girl, with large dark eyes and abundant black hair. Margarita
had the sweetest smile imaginable, the softest voice and gentlest
manner, and was so much loved by everybody in the house that she was
like one of the family. Unhappily she was consumptive, and after a few
months had to be sent back to her aunt. Their little place was only
half a mile or so from the house, and every day my mother visited her,
doing all that was possible with such skill and remedies as she
possessed to give her ease, and providing her with delicacies. The
girl did not want a priest to visit her and prepare her for death; she
worshipped her mistress, and wished to be of the same faith, and in
the end she died a pervert or convert, according to this or that
person's point of view.
The day after her death we children were taken to see our beloved
Margarita for the last time; but when we arrived at the door, and the
others following my mother went in, I alone hung back. They came out
and tried to persuade me to enter, even to pull me in, and described
her appearance to excite my curiosity. She was lying all in white,
with her black hair combed out and loose, on her white bed, with our
flowers on her breast and at her sides, and looked very, very
beautiful.
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