"They have been very good to the stranger within their gates," she said to herself. "I wish I could show them how grateful I am now! I wish I were a saint to call down blessings on their harvest!"
And she wished it with that fervour which one cannot help hoping is not entirely wasted, even in the entire absence of saintship.
She was so full of her own thoughts that she did not hear steps coming over the stubble behind her.
George Sauls had been up to the house and found the door set wide open, and every one out; then, with a shrug of his shoulders at the primitive confidence that still reigned in these parts, had gone on to the hay-field, where he descried Mrs. Thorpe sitting under the rick.
He stood behind her now without speaking. He was shocked to see how ill she looked. He had always felt that Meg's beauty was of too spiritual a kind; now, her complexion was more transparent than usual, and the intent expression in her eyes made her look more spirit-like than ever.
George felt his hatred of her husband leap up like a flame; it was dangerously hot. She turned round and saw him.
"Ah, I beg your pardon!" he cried. "I have frightened you! I ought not to have appeared on the scene with such startling effect. I am a fool, Mrs. Thorpe" ("and a greater fool than you guess," he added inwardly), "and you? You have been ill?"
"I am sure that you bring me news. Tell me quickly," said Meg.
"I come from Mr. Deane; he has sent for you," answered George concisely.
He put her father's note into her hand, and turned his back on her, staring stolidly in front of him.