Meg of the heather

by Evelyn R. Garratt

Then she turned once more to give a parting look at the only home she had ever known. The drawing-room and library windows were shuttered, but above them were the windows of her own room and Sheila's, wide open. She could catch sight of a picture of the Good Shepherd that hung over her bed and about which she had asked many a question of Miss Gregson when she had first arrived at Friars Court. It was the picture of the Shepherd reaching down to save a little lamb that was standing on a dangerous cliff. Meg loved it. Suddenly remembering that she was in full view of Sheila should anything cause her to awake and look out of her window, the girl moved on making her way to the wood.

By going through the wood she could avoid the few houses that formed the village, and the path by the field took her within a short distance of the railway station at Elminster.

The only destination she could think of was London.

She remembered how London in the old days contained for her all that at that time seemed to make life worth living for, but it held for her now no hope of any kind.

Finding that she was much too early for the train Meg sat down in a field within ten minutes' walk of the station. She was feeling tired, as besides having had no sleep she had had no breakfast, and now that she had become accustomed to regular and good meals she felt the want of food. She remembered how often she used to sit and rest in fields and under hedges in the days that seemed so long ago, and contrasted her feelings now with what they were then.

Her future looked grey and hopeless. She wished she could cut out of her life the two last years, which had robbed her of spring, and had made it impossible for her to find happiness in nature as of yore. She had loved then the scent of the heather and bracken, the song of the birds, the little flowers that grew by the wayside. They had all added to the almost wild joy that she had felt as she had marched towards Minton on the day of the thunder storm. Now she could do nothing but look back and sigh. The present and the future were equally dark to her; and the birds and sunshine had no power to raise her spirits.

She was thankful when she found it was time to go to the station. She wanted to get out of reach of all that had contributed to her happiness in the days that were now past recall, and was glad that no one whose face she knew was apparently travelling by the early train for London. In the third class carriage in which she travelled her only companion was a young widow dressed in rusty black, with her little boy.

The woman had a nice, plain, kind face.

The boy grew restless during the journey, and his mother failing to quiet him, looked anxiously at her companion, who was sitting with closed eyes in her corner of the carriage. She hoped he was not annoying her.

The woman looked long at the lovely face surrounded with the auburn hair, and wondered what made it wear such a sad expression. To the poor widow in her rusty black Meg looked as if she had much of this world's goods. Her dress was made of an expensive tweed, though it was plain and neat; and the boots below it were of good leather and were a pretty shape. What could such a girl have to make her sad?