The poor creature was lying upon a miserable straw mattress, covered with an old rug, and the place she was in presented altogether a picture of wretchedness and want.
“How long has she been here?” inquired Sir Francis of an old crone, who showed him the room.
“Only last night,” was the reply. “She’s as mad as she can be. Just look now, sir.”
The woman attempted to open one of the hands of Maud which was clutched tightly, but the poor woman burst into a scream of agony, crying,—
“No, no, no—oh, spare me that—I found it by the dead that would not burn. Help—help. Angel come and help me now.”
“Do not torment her,” said Sir Francis. “What has she in her hand!”
“Only some crumpled up bits of paper, sir, but she thinks a mighty deal of ’em.”
“Go and fetch me the nearest medical man, and a coach,” said Sir Francis. “Here is half-a-crown for your trouble.”
The woman with a profusion of thanks went on her message, and the humane magistrate sat down by the miserable couch of the sufferer.
“Maud, Maud,” he said, close to her ear.