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Updated: June 8, 2025
Just there she had stood, clutching her little fingers behind her, when he came up and threw back her hood to look in her face: how pale and worn it was, even then! He had not looked at her to-night: he would not, if he had been dying, with those men standing there. He stood alone in the world with this little Margret.
The very cart, patched as it was, had a snug, cosy look; the masses of vegetables, green and crimson and scarlet, were heaped with a certain reference to the glow of colour, Margret noticed, wondering if it were accidental. Looking up, she saw the girl's brown eyes fixed on her face. They were singularly soft, brooding brown. "Ye 'r' goin' to th' mill, Miss Marg'et?" she asked, in a half whisper.
Only for that miserable fever, you could read shorthand now." Her own blue eyes filled with tears. There was a sudden silence. Margret shivered, as if some pain stung her. Holding her father's bony hand in hers, she patted it on her knee. The hand trembled a little.
Margret heard it through the dark: she kissed the dog with a strange paleness on her face, and stood up, quiet, attentive as before. Tiger still kept licking her hand, as it hung by her side: it was cold, and trembled as he touched it. She waited a moment, then pushed him from her, as if his touch, even, caused her to break some vow.
Margret, who was present at the sacking, told how she had saved father's. It seems that those who wrought destruction in our house were all officers. I'll help you to anything here. He's dead, and the young ladies would rather see the house burn than lose it!"
There was not a morsel of her flesh that was not pure and holy in his eyes. His Margret? He chafed with an intolerable fever to make her his, but for one instant, as she had been once. Now, when it was too late. For he went back over every word he had spoken that night, forcing himself to go through with it, every cold, poisoned word. It was a fitting penance.
One of the most fruitful sources of information about social life in the fifteenth century are the Paston Letters. In one written by John Paston in 1472 to "Mestresse Margret Paston," he tells her of the arrival of a visitor, and continues: "I praye yow make hym goode cheer ... it were best to sette hys horse at the Maydes Hedde, and I shall be content for ther expenses."
In time she was declared cured, and it was arranged that her husband should come for her on a certain day and remove her; but Margret, having had enough of marriage and its responsibilities, left the asylum quietly before that day came and made her way to the Island.
'Fore I went in, I had the rickets, they say: that's what ails me. 'T hurt my head, they've told me, made me different frum other folks." She stopped a moment, with a dumb, hungry look in her eyes. After a while she looked at Margret furtively, with a pitiful eagerness. "Miss Marg'et, I think there BE something wrong in my head. Did YOH ever notice it?"
"I had a curious dream to-night, Margret, a waking dream: only a clear vision of what had been once. Do you remember the old time?" What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it, looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes. "Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us then, little one, before you and me? Do you remember the Christmas before I went away?
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