"Yes, I forgive you, Gerald," Mr. Fowler had said sadly. "But you see, wrongdoing always brings its own punishment," he had added, noting the little boy's troubled countenance, and making a shrewd guess as to the state of his feelings with regard to Margaret.
The servants crept quietly about the house speaking in hushed tones, for the angel of death seemed hovering near; and those who loved Margaret Fowler waited and watched unwearyingly. A second doctor from Plymouth had visited the patient. But he had agreed with Dr. Vawdry that nothing more could be done for her, and that it was merely a question of whether or not her strength would hold out and vanquish the disease.
At last, the crisis came. And then, the glad news that the little sufferer was sleeping quietly and naturally was whispered through the house, and spread to the Vicarage, and from thence to the village, where Salome Petherick heard the good tidings in Silas Moyle's shop, and returned home with a joyful, thankful heart.
The golden, autumn days were passing swiftly now, and there was a sharp feeling in the air in the morning, but a few hardy flowers lingered in Salome's garden; a big bush fuchsia which grew beneath the kitchen window was still in bloom, and the verbena close to the porch had not commenced to shed its leaves, whilst the white chrysanthemums which flourished year by year in the shelter of the wall which protected the garden on the side nearest to the sea were in full flower. The lame girl gathered a posy, and took it up to Greystone, where she left it at the back door with a request that it might be given to Miss Margaret, if she was well enough to receive it. She declined an invitation to rest awhile, saying she must hurry home to get her father's tea.
So it came to pass, that when Margaret awoke from her refreshing sleep, she was conscious of a delightful perfume, and opening her eyes, they rested on a homely nosegay, composed of chrysanthemums, intermingled with sprigs of verbena, and drooping fuchsia sprays. The flowers lay on the counterpane, but when she tried to put out her hand to reach them, she found she could not. Then the bed curtain stirred, and she saw a face bending over her—a beautiful face full of love and a great joy.
"Mother," she said weakly.
"Yes, my dear," was the soft reply. "You have been ill, but you are better, and have had such a nice, long sleep. I want you to drink this milk and then go to sleep again."
Mrs. Fowler slipped her arm beneath the pillow, and gently raised the little girl's head, whilst she held a cup to her lips. Margaret took a few sips of milk, but refused more.
"The flowers," she said, as her mother laid her head down again.
"Salome sent them to you with her love."