Mary woke to find a fresh dress and undergarments waiting at the foot of the bed. After she had dressed, her mother gave her tea and porridge, and to her surprise, did not try to dissuade her from the long journey to the faded cottage. Both of them knew it to be a dreary, and possibly dangerous task. But both, for different reasons, also knew it to be essential. Wrapping the cloak about her Mary went to the door, determined not to look back. Still, something made her turn. "I may not be coming back for a time," she said. "You understand that?" "Yes," replied the old woman, in a voice wholly lacking its former strength. "Will you make me one promise before you go? Only make it, and I will rest easier." "What is it?" "Promise me. . .that you won't try to take your own life. That you will not let the bitterness fester inside you like an unclean wound, turning slowly to the poison of hate. Will you give me your word?" Mary looked back at her, confused. "You have nothing to fear, I'm sure. I should have thought my weak character well known to you by now, and to have removed any such concern. Twice I have set a hard resolve, and twice failed. I doubt if I should ever find the courage." "Listen to me, Mary." Her mother spoke now so earnestly, and with a desperate entreaty so unlike her, that despite the numb lethargy into which her heart had sunk, Mary felt a qualm of fear on her behalf. "It is not weakness," said the woman, "to desire life, and to respect it enough...." Tears gathered in the pale, aged eyes that had lost their hard luster. "I fear I have done you a grievous ill. Forgive me!" And she hid her face, ashamed. And for all the pain this woman had caused her, all the mother's love withheld for so many years, Mary found herself unable to return the injury, now that the chance had come. She went to the old woman slowly, took down the trembling hands, and kissed her on the forehead. "You are what your life has made you. Of course I forgive you. And I'll make your promise, if you'll make me one in return." Her mother nodded helplessly. "Will you promise to rest, and be gentle with yourself, until I can send a doctor back to check on you?" ... "Yes." "All right, then. Let me help you to bed, then I'll build up the fire one last time." Her mother was unable to reply. And having done what she said, Mary left her with those words. Margaret MacCain died three hours later, as a black curtain descended slowly across the field of her vision. A single tear escaped her. She said a silent prayer for her daughter. And then she, too, was gone. Mary walked on through the bitter night, the faltering torch she held like a fretted candle in the depths of the dark. The rain had stopped, and the ground frozen solid. Each footstep clumped painfully against the hard, unyielding earth. Her mind was so numbed with pain and loss that she found she could not even think. Time seemed to stop dead in its tracks just to mock her. She continued.