"Maggie Sheffield?" It was a trembling voice, old, and strangely familiar. It was deep with illness.
Maggie turned slowly to see a small, hunched old man step out from the shadows. He stood silhouetted against the fence, and Maggie could not see his face or his features. He stretched out a hand toward her. It was shaking.
"Maggie?" he asked again. He took a step forward and Maggie realized that he was about to fall. She dropped the leafy twigs in her hand and rushed forward, grabbing the old man's arm to steady him. He looked up at her with weary, gray eyes.
"Thank ye, Maggie," he said.
She knew who he was. The relief of recognition flooded her. Those gray eyes had regarded her kindly when she was a child in the Orphan House, and once they had watch