' In the morning her kind hostess came to
her bedside.
'You've got a mother, haven't you--leastways, I know you have,
because you wrote to her.'
'Yes.'
'Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?'
'Yes.'
'And she's fond of you, maybe?'
'Oh, yes.'
'That's a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back in the cart to
Letherhead, and you'll catch the Darkin coach to London.'
'You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?'
'Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would just look as
if I'd trapped you here to get something out of you. Pay! no, not a
penny.'
'I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will not offer
anything. I don't know how to thank you enough.'
Madge took Mrs Caffyn's hand in hers and pressed it firmly.
'Besides, my dear,' said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets a little,
'you won't mind my saying it, I expex you are in trouble. There's
something on your mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it
is.'
Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; Mrs
Caffyn sat between her and the window.
'Look you here, my dear; don't you suppose I meant to say anything to
hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed to you like; I
couldn't help it. I see'd what was the matter, but I was all the
more drawed, and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference.
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