Perhaps she would fall in some lime-pit, or ditch, or into the slimy lock of some canal, and die miserably.
Who would weep for her if she died? Who cared for Margaret Walsingham?
And the thought of her utter desolation overcome her, as weariness, hunger, and storm had failed to do.
She crouched down beneath a furze-bush, and, resting her hot and beating head upon her hands, wept, poor soul!
And then came unconsciousness and utter oblivion.
"I declare, John, she knows me! Here, take a sup o' this barley-water, my lamb. Dear heart! she's sensible once more. Ain't there another drop than this, John? Mayhap it's plenty." Margaret looked with languid eyes upon the rugged figure of a man, clad in dingy red-dust habiliments, who was standing between her and a small window, with his head sunk in a curious way between his hands.
His brawny shoulders were heaving, and his rough shock of hair trembled like sea-grass in a hurricane, while a gurgling sort of noise issued from him.
Had a fit of laughter seized him, or was the man crying?
Whose bed was she lying in, hung with red calico curtains?