Mysterious this
place like a well, with its green shadows. No wonder the poor child
had been ill here. At the thought of her being near to death Mathew
felt a choke in his throat. Poor child, never had any fun all her
life and then to die in a green well like this. And his sisters
wouldn't care if she did, hard women, hard women. Funny how religion
made you hard, darn funny. Good thing he'd been irreligious all his
life. Think of his brother Charles! There was religion for you,
living with his cook and preaching to her next morning. Bad thing
religion!
Aunt Anne returned, coming down the stairs with that queer halting
gait of hers.
"Maggie's in the drawing-room," she said. "She'll like to see you."
As they went up, Aunt Anne said: "Be careful with her, Mathew. She's
still very weak. Don't say anything to upset her?"
He mumbled something in his throat. Couldn't trust him. Of course
they couldn't. Never had . . . Fine sort of sisters they were.
Maggie was sitting by the fire, a shawl over her shoulders. By God,
but she looked ill. Mathew had another gulp in his throat. Poor kid,
but she did look ill.
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