At last, suddenly, the postal orders and the letters ceased; for three weeks, four, five weeks.  Then Majendie began to feel uneasy.  He would have to look her up.

Then one morning, early in September, a letter was brought to him at the office (Maggie’s letters were always addressed to the office, never to his house).  There was no postal order with it.  For three weeks Maggie had been ill, then she had been very poorly, very weak, too weak to sit long at work.  And so she had lost what work she had; but she hoped to get more when she was strong again.  When she was strong the repayments would begin again, said Maggie.  She hoped Mr. Majendie would forgive her for not having sent any for so long.  She was very sorry.  But, if it wasn’t too much to ask, she would be very glad if Mr. Majendie would come some day and see her.

He sent her an extra remittance by the bearer, and went to see her the next day.  His conscience reproached him for not having gone before.

Mrs. Morse, the landlady, received him with many appearances of relief.  In her mind he was evidently responsible for Maggie.  He was the guardian, the benefactor, the sender of rent.

“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 anaemia.  A horrible thought came to him.  Had the little thing been starving herself to save enough to repay him?

“What have you been doing to yourself, Maggie?” he said brusquely.

Maggie looked frightened.  “Nothing,” she said.

“Working your fingers to the bone?”

She shook her head.  “I was no good at dressmaking.  They wouldn’t have me.”

“Well—­” he said kindly.

“There are a great many things I can do.  I can make wreaths and crosses and bookays.  I made them at Evans’s.  I could go back there.  Mr. Evans would have me.  But Mrs. Evans wouldn’t.”  She paused, surveying her immense resources.  “Or I could do the flowers for people’s parties.  I used to.  Do you think—­perhaps—­they’d have me?”