And Meg, with an effort, did as he bid her. It was a short interview, for he really wasn't fit to stand, and she found it hard work to talk of herself when she was longing to hear about him. But Barnabas had no desire to tell his wife too much about the inside of Newgate. Why should he give her bad dreams?
Meg told him of her encounter with George Sauls, and about the wonderful prices she had got for her wax fruit, of which she was rather proud, and about "Bill's girl".
"But if you were there, you'd know better what to say to them," she cried. "I want to ask you constantly."
"Poor little lass! Ye've not got Tom either, now," said Barnabas. "Nor dad, who, I believe, allus suited ye best of us all; but I think ye do finely, Margaret."
And Meg went back to finish some flowers and take them to the shop that always received them, and came home with the money in her hand, and sang with her very odd "class" in the evening, and sat up to write to her husband's relatives, all the time with the lump in her throat, that the sight of those "few bruises" had brought.
She began to tell Tom how ill the preacher looked, then tore the letter up, and rewrote it.
"He can do nothing, and it's a shame to make him anxious too," she reflected. "Why should I? I wish Barnabas were here!"
She had missed his constant care and protection before; but to-night she jumped up restlessly, unable to sit still, and walked up and down the room, filled with horrible visions of the scene in the yard when the men the preacher had "riled" had pulled him down among them.
Barnabas had made her promise that she wouldn't think "overmuch" of that; and she tried to put the thought away again.
"Ye must forget it! I'm sorry ye were told," he had said. "I'd not have your thoughts o' me hurt you, my lass. Will 'ee be a bit glad to have me to do for ye again, eh?"