Maggie unfolded something that was pinned in silver paper with a peculiar care. It was a small garment, in some faint-coloured silk, embroidered with blue pansies (always blue pansies). "That's a frock," said she, "for a little girl. You've got a little girl--a little fair girl." He reddened. How the devil, he wondered, does she know that I have a little fair girl? "I don't think it would fit her," he said. Maggie reddened now. "Oh--I don't want you to buy it. I don't want you to buy anything. Only to tell people." So much he promised her. He tried to think of all the people he could tell. Mrs. Hannay, Mrs. Ransome, Mrs. Gardner--no, Mrs. Gardner was Anne's friend. If Anne had been different he could have told Anne. He could have told her everything. As it was--No. He rose to go, but, instead of going, he stayed and bought several pieces of embroidery for Mrs. Hannay, and the frock, not for Peggy, but for Mrs. Ransome's little girl. They haggled a good deal over the price, owing to Maggie's obstinate attempts to ruin her own market. (She must always have been bent on ruining herself, poor child.) Then he tried to go again, and Mrs. Morse came in with the tea-tray, and Maggie insisted on making him a cup of tea, and of course he had to stay and drink it. Maggie revived over her tea-tray. Her face flushed and rounded again to an orb of jubilant content. And he asked her if she were happy. If she liked her work. She hesitated. "It's this way," she said. "Sometimes I can't think of anything else. I can sit and sit at it for weeks on end. I don't want anything else. Then, all of a sudden, something comes over me, and I can't put in another stitch. Sometimes--when it comes--I'm that tired, it's as if I 'ad weights on me arms, and I couldn't 'old them up to sew. And sometimes, again, I'm that restless, it's as if you'd lit a fire under me feet. I'm frightened," said Maggie, "when I feel it coming. But I'm only tired now." She broke off; but by the expression of her face, he saw that her thoughts ran underground. He wondered where they would come out again. "I haven't seen anybody this time," said Maggie, "for six months." "Not even Mr. Mumford?" "Oh, no, not him. I don't want to see him." And her thoughts ran back to where they started from. "It hasn't come lately," said Maggie, "it hasn't come for quite a long time." "What hasn't come?" "What I've been telling you--what I'm afraid of." "It won't come, Maggie," he said quickly. (He might have been her father or the doctor.) "If it does, it'll be worse now." "Why should it be?" "Because I can't get away from it. I've nowhere to go to. Other girls have got their friends. I've got nobody. Why, Mr. Majendie--think--there isn't a place in this whole town where I can go to for a cup of tea." "You'll make friends." She shook her head, guarding her little air of tragic wisdom. Mrs. Morse popped her head in at the door, and out again. "Is that woman kind to you?" "Yes, very kind."