"Nellie was a lady—
Last night she died."
He fancied he distinguished the reluctant drawing near of tardy feet. When the song was ended he looked round. Meg was on the threshold. A glance revealed the change those four days had wrought. Her hair was unkempt, her dress untidy, her cheeks pale; but it was not so much those signs of neglect, the pallor of her cheeks, the drawn lines about her mouth that startled him, as a certain expression of childish recklessness. It was the Meg he had seen wrangling with boys in the street, flying past him lawless and fierce. In her hand she held his letter, and she kept her eyes fixed upon him with a bold stare.
"Is it true what you have written here, or is it a pack of stories?" she asked abruptly.
"It is all true, Meg," said Mr. Standish gently. "She was a lady."
"A real lady, like those that drive about in the carriages?" asked the child with stern cross-examination.
"She was a real lady, Meg; just as you have always pictured her—with soft hands that had never done rough work, and a gentle voice. All about her was beautiful," replied Mr. Standish in slow and convinced tones.
At this assurance Meg gave a little sigh; the tension about her lips relaxed; the fierce brilliancy of her interrogative glance was subdued.
"How do you know?" she asked more softly.
"Mrs. Browne told me. I will take you to her, and she will tell it to you."
"I don't want her to tell me, you tell me," said Meg quickly.