"She's been very ill, sir," said Mrs. Morse; "but she wouldn't 'ave you written to till she was better."
"Why not?"
"I'm sure I can't say, sir, wot 'er feeling was."
It struck him as strange and pathetic that Maggie could have a feeling. He was soon to know that she had little else.
He found her sitting by a fire, wrapped in a shawl. It slipped from her as she rose, as she leaped, rather, from her seat like one unnerved by a sudden shock. He stooped and picked up the shawl before he spoke, that he might give the poor thing time to recover herself.
"Did I startle you?" he said.
Maggie was still breathing hard. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," she said weakly, and sat down again. Maggie was very weak. She was not like the Maggie he remembered, the creature of brilliant flesh and blood. Maggie's flesh was worn and limp; it had a greenish tint; her blood no longer flowed in the cream rose of her face. She had parted with the sources of her radiant youth.
She seemed to him to be suffering from severe anæmia. A horrible thought came to him. Had the little thing been starving herself to save enough to repay him?