At the end of that time, Laura, pushing it aside, touched Meg's shoulder as she sat in her usual place.
"Your husband is outside," she said. "I passed him on my way in. He told me to tell you that he should like a minute's sight of you, but that you need not hurry—he could wait."
Meg made a sign that she would come; and presently, taking a shawl from Laura, slid gently out of the room, while her father's eyes were closed.
She opened the front door and stood at the top of the steps, shivering a little, though the evening was hot, for the flower-scented room upstairs was hotter.
A street musician was playing, and some children were shouting and dancing. After the silence she had left behind that curtain, the merry tune and the unsubdued voices sounded strangely loud and bold.
"My lass," said the preacher. "Ye are lookin' liker a bit o' moonlight than ever! Come down to me."
And Meg, putting the shawl over her head, ran down, and stood beside him on the pavement. They walked down the length of the square together. The street player ceased playing for a moment to stare at the woman who had stepped out of the front door of No. 35 to keep company with a working man, and then the tune ground on again.
"Barnabas," she said in a low voice, "I shall come to you the very moment that—that he does not need me. I do not think Aunt Russelthorpe would keep me a second."
"And you'll not need to ask her!" said the preacher quickly. "Come to me any time, lass; though ye'll find it a bit uncomfortable, I'm afear'd! Still, we'll do somehow."
He frowned, considering the possibilities of Giles' house, then turned to her with a smile. "Do you feel as if ye'd stepped backwards a year or so?"