"I almost wish those children had never come," she said to Miss Gregson who was knitting. "When they were here I longed to get rid of them, and now that they have gone it seems rather dull. Why is it that one always feels a little flat when anyone leaves, although one may not care for them a bit!"
"It is partly the quiet no doubt," said Miss Gregson.
"Nothing ever satisfies me," said Sheila, "and everything is disappointing. I looked forward to having those children, and to making them happy, more than anything I can remember; and yet when they came I passed them over very quickly to you, poor Angel. I don't know what I should do without you! You really are an angel. You never grumble at anything. I fancy sometimes that dear old Peter thinks I treat you rather badly, I am selfish. Well, Walter, what is it?" for the butler had made his appearance.
"It's a young girl, M'am, who is asking if you will be good enough to allow her to sing to you. She's a tramp I take it, but looks so bad and pale that I hadn't the heart to send her away."
"Where is she?"
"At the front door, M'am."
"I'll come," said Sheila.
Arrived at the door she found the girl seated in the hall looking tired and ill, and the butler, who evidently did not like to leave her unwatched under the circumstances, mounting guard over her.
"You can go, Walter," said Sheila and then turned to look at the girl.
Meg was leaning her head against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her lovely auburn hair was uncovered, for Jem's hat had come quite to an end, and had to be left regretfully in a ditch. Sheila stood looking at the girl and was struck by her beauty, and still more by the intense weariness depicted on her face.