"Yes, I suppose He's given me you," said Meg, the tears coursing down her face. "I'm afraid I've been ever so ungrateful talking like this, you've been more than kind; and you're the only friend I have in the world."
"Come, come, my dear. Don't worry over it, there's a dear. It won't do you no good to cry. I'll go for the parish doctor and see what he says about you."
By the time Mrs. Webb had returned, delirium had set in and Meg was talking softly and hurriedly to herself.
"I'd do anything to please you," she whispered, turning her head restlessly from side to side, "and I'll try hard to talk grammar. It ain't because I don't try. Oh! hark, that's the night hawk. Miss Gregson do go away and leave me, I ain't fit for fine company. Jem! Jem! Jem!"
When the doctor came, he ordered Meg off to the Infirmary.
[CHAPTER XX]
IN THE DARKNESS
WHEN Meg awoke to consciousness she looked about her in consternation. She was in a large ward containing many other beds, and as she looked with startled eyes around, it gradually dawned upon her that she was in the Infirmary. From the sunshine, brightness and comfort of Friars Court to the Infirmary. Meg turned her face to the wall and wept. The iron had entered into her soul, she wished she could die.
She felt she was forgotten and absolutely alone. The pain at her heart was so fierce and strong that it was almost unendurable. She could scarcely trust herself to think of Sheila. She felt that had it not been for her she might still have been comparatively happy, tramping the lanes and sleeping under the stars.
What had been the good of taking her up in the way she had done and then casting her off? Meg wished she had never seen her; that she had never entered Friars Court, that Miss Gregson and Mr. Fortescue had never crossed her path. What good had it been? It had only made her discontented with her own life and unprepared for the struggle that she had now to face.