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Margaret O'brien, a great-aunt and seventy-five, knew she was near the end. She did not repine, for she had had a long, hard life and she was tired. The young priest who brought her communion had administered the last rites -- holy oils on her eyelids (Lord, forgive her the sins of seeing! ); holy oils on her lips (Lord, forgive her the sins of speaking! ), on her ears, on her knotted hands, on her weary feet. Now she was ready, though she knew the approach of the dread presence would mean greater suffering. So she folded quiet hands beneath her heart, there where no child had ever lain, yet where now something grew and fattened on her strength. And she seemed given over to pleasant revery.
Neighbors came in to see her, and she roused herself and received them graciously, with a personal touch for each. -- 'And has your Julia gone to New York, Mrs. Carty? Nothing would do her but she must be going, I suppose. 'Twas the selfsame way with me, when I was coming out here from the old country. Full of money the streets were, I used to be thinking. Well, well; the hills far away are green.'