The landlady and her lodger appeared, in fact, to understand each other so perfectly that in the evening Mrs. Foster began to think herself de trop. Not that Mrs. Grey was anything but most kind and hospitable; she was even too grateful for her obedience to her young gentleman's wishes; but there was nothing for her to do. Jane kept her house in excellent order, and certainly, as far as Mrs. Grey's personal requirements went, it did not seem as if she could have a more devoted attendant.
Mrs. Foster made up her mind to write to her young master and point out to him that her further presence would be unnecessary. But the next morning brought a change. There were two letters—one for Margaret and one for the old woman. Adèle and Arthur had both written to announce the pleasing fact of their arrival.
Margaret was in bed when her letters came, but the sight of them revived her. Her new champion was more active than the lawyer; he had news, Adèle said, and he would bring it. For although the strange events of the last few days had had the effect of dividing Margaret's thoughts in a measure, yet this was still her one haunting desire—to see Maurice once more, to let him at least hear of her, to have him know that she was faithful to him in heart and conscience. Even the recovery of her child was second to that.
"They will be here this evening," she said to old Martha, her face radiant with hope. "I wish the evening were here."
And the old woman wondered, thinking within herself that this eagerness was rather suspicious.
But further remarks were stopped by a knock at the door. The landlady was there holding a fair-haired child by the hand. "Excuse me, ma'am," she said in that constrained tone which was always a puzzle to Martha; "but I thought you might perhaps like to see my nephew."
A light which was very like most unfeigned joy spread itself over Margaret's face. "Bring him to me, Jane," she said softly. "There, put him up on the bed; he won't be frightened." For the child was looking round bewildered at the strangeness of the scene.
"He's not properly dressed," said the woman falteringly.
Willie still wore the coarse workhouse suit, but his fair skin was as white as snow, and his yellow curls might have been the pride of any mother's heart.
"Never mind his clothes. Give him to me for one moment," said Margaret pleadingly.