"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."
And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job Legh to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain fire-light you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind person.
"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally. "And that's your last word?"
"Yes, yes; good-night." She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome visitor—unwelcome at that time at least.
"Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"
"Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately. Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's no terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it's very hard. Poor George! he were such a hearty looking man."
"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend, "thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? Is it wi' crying? Your eyes are so swollen and red."
"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was last night?"
"No; where?"
"Look here." She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened her large gray eyes with astonishment.