He went, and Meg lay wide awake listening. She took the gruel her mother brought her, and pronounced herself much better. Often her eyes rested on the little cot, but she did not cry, nor did she say anything about it.
Once she asked hesitatingly—
"Mother, did I dream it, or did some one say that Jem was dead?"
"It was a mistake," answered Mrs. Seymour, "a cruel carelessness. It was a man of the name of Seymour, who lives, we find, in the second house up the court, and people sent them here. 'Twas a cruel thing to say it out like that!"
Meg asked no more, and before long she heard Jem's step coming up the stairs and entering the room.
He came softly to her bedside, and then, as if he could no longer bear it, he threw himself on his knees and wept bitterly.
Meg put out her hand and touched his head.
"Jem dear?" she questioned; while Mrs. Seymour laid a firm hand on his arm, and said gravely—
"Don't give way so, my son, or you'll worry her."
But Jem was wholly overcome.