Meg felt a flame of indignant protest rising against this persistent abuse. She would have skipped the censure so relentlessly pursuing the old man, who listened in silence with jaw set and lips compressed; but he always detected the attempt, and bade her "go on" in a voice so stern that its tone stopped the reluctant quaver in hers. Meg knew that her auditor, who never offered a word of remonstrance or vouchsafed an exclamation as she read, suffered from these scathing attacks. He looked paler and feebler, she thought, during the day, and wandered with more piteous aimlessness about the park.
One hot Wednesday afternoon she came upon him asleep in a garden chair in the sunshine. The feebleness of his aspect strangely appealed to Meg. He looked so frail and pale. The pride of his appearance was relaxed. The colorless features, the delicate hands loosely crossed, might have been modeled in wax. In the immobility of sleep the face had a tragic cast. Meg thought it looked like that of one dead, who in life had suffered beyond the ordinary lot of man. Pity and indignation that one so old and stricken should be made to suffer stirred Meg's heart. For a moment she looked upon her benefactor, and then she turned away with moistened eyes.
Meg was no dreamer. She was of an active nature. As she walked feverishly about the grounds she found herself remonstrating in imagination with this venomous persecutor of one who had cast a spell of interest over her, and to whom she owed so much. She sometimes stopped in her walk to complete some angry appeal. Suddenly a daring thought arose in her mind. She would call upon this man, and in the strength of a just cause she would meet him face to face without anger, and tell him the injury he was doing to an old man's life. Would she dare to do it? She did not know the editor's name, but she had noticed that letters published in the paper were simply addressed to him in his official capacity. She knew where to find the office of the Greywolds Mercury. She had seen it one day that she had had occasion to visit the market town two miles distant. After the first flash of courage her spirit failed as she approached the gate. She hesitated. She thought of that newspaper in the library, and went back and read the article again. Again her indignation blazed up. Holding the paper in her hand she set out on her mission. As she walked she read over portions of the article to keep her zeal warm. Thus she proceeded on her way, filled with her theme, yet faltering.
She reached the town, and turned into the High Street where the office stood. She easily recognized it by the posters outside and the advertisements in the windows. Meg entered the shabby interior with a desperate effort, and while trembling, yet full of moral courage, impelled to act by what seemed to be a duty. A clerk sat at a desk; a small boy was posting and rolling up the papers. It was the dingiest corner from which a thunderbolt could be launched.
"I want to see the editor," she said brusquely.
"He is busy, miss," answered the clerk, surveying her slowly over his spectacles.
"I want to see him on important business," said Meg determinedly, trying to look unabashed.
"What name shall I say?" asked the clerk.
"Miss Beecham; but he will not know me," replied Meg.