THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S

By Frances Hodgson Burnett

Charles Scribners Sons - 1877

THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S

CHAPTER I - A Difficult Case

They did not look like women, or at least a stranger new to the districtmight easily have been misled by their appearance, as they stoodtogether in a group, by the pit's mouth. There were about a dozen ofthem there--all "pit-girls, " as they were called; women who wore adress more than half masculine, and who talked loudly and laugheddiscordantly, and some of whom, God knows, had faces as hard and brutalas the hardest of their collier brothers and husbands and sweethearts. They had lived among the coal-pits, and had worked early and late at the"mouth, " ever since they had been old enough to take part in the heavylabor. It was not to be wondered at that they had lost all bloom ofwomanly modesty and gentleness. Their mothers had been "pit-girls" intheir time, their grandmothers in theirs; they had been born in coarsehomes; they had fared hardly, and worked hard; they had breathed in thedust and grime of coal, and, somehow or other, it seemed to stick tothem and reveal itself in their natures as it did in their bold unwashedfaces. At first one shrank from them, but one's shrinking could notfail to change to pity. There was no element of softness to rule or eveninfluence them in their half savage existence. 

On the particular evening of which I speak, the group at the pit's mouthwere even more than usually noisy. They were laughing, gossiping andjoking, --coarse enough jokes, --and now and then a listener might haveheard an oath flung out as if all were well used to the sound. Most ofthem were young women, though there were a few older ones among them, and the principal figure in the group--the center figure, about whom therest clustered--was a young woman. But she differed from the rest in twoor three respects. The others seemed somewhat stunted in growth; she wastall enough to be imposing. She was as roughly clad as the poorest ofthem, but she wore her uncouth garb differently. The man's jacket offustian, open at the neck, bared a handsome sunbrowned throat. The man'shat shaded a face with dark eyes that had a sort of animal beauty, and awell-molded chin. It was at this girl that all the rough jokes seemed tobe directed. 

"I'll tell thee, Joan, " said one woman, "we'st ha' thee sweetheartin'wi' him afore th' month's out. "

"Aye, " laughed her fellows, "so we shall. Tha'st ha' to turn softafter aw. Tha conna stond out again' th' Lunnon chap. We'st ha' theesweetheartin', Joan, i' th' face o' aw tha'st said. "

Joan Lowrie faced them defiantly:

"Tha'st noan ha' me sweetheartin' wi' siccan a foo', " she said, "I amnaower fond o' men folk at no time. I've had my fill on 'em; and I'm noanloike to tak' up wi' such loike as this un. An' he's no an a Lunnonerneither. He's on'y fro' th' South. An th' South is na Lunnon. "

"He's getten' Lunnon ways tho', " put in another. "Choppin' his words upan' mincin' 'em sma'. He's noan Lancashire, ony gowk could tell. "

"I dunnot see as he minces so, " said Joan roughly. "He dunnot speak ourloike, but he's well enow i' his way. "

A boisterous peal of laughter interrupted her. 

"I thowt tha' ca'ed him a foo' a minute sin', " cried two or three voicesat once. "Eh, Joan, lass, tha'st goin' t' change thy moind, I see. "

The girl's eyes flashed. 

"Theer's others I could ca' foo's, " she said; "I need na go far tofoind foo's. Foo' huntin's th' best sport out, an' th' safest. Leave th'engineer alone an' leave me alone too. It 'll be th' best fur yo'. "

She turned round and strode out of the group. 

Another burst of derisive laughter followed her, but she took no noticeof it She took no notice of anything--not even of the two men who atthat very moment passed and turned to look at her as she went by. 

"A fine creature!" said one of them. 

"A fine creature!" echoed the other. "Yes, and you see that is preciselyit, Derrick. 'A fine creature'--and nothing else. "

They were the young engineer and his friend the Reverend Paul Grace, curate of the parish. There were never two men more unlike, physicallyand mentally, and yet it would have been a hard task to find two naturesmore harmonious and sympathetic. Still most people wondered at andfailed to comprehend their friendship. The mild, nervous little Oxonianbarely reached Derrick's shoulder; his finely cut face was singularlyfeminine and innocent; the mild eyes beaming from behind his smallspectacles had an absent, dreamy look. One could not fail to see atthe first glance, that this refined, restless, conscientious littlegentleman was hardly the person to cope successfully with Riggan. Derrick strode by his side like a young son of Anak--brains and muscleevenly balanced and fully developed. 

He turned his head over his shoulder to look at Joan Lowrie once again. 

"That girl, " said Grace, "has worked at the pit's mouth from herchildhood; her mother was a pit girl until she died--of hard work, privation and ill treatment. Her father is a collier and lives as mostof them do--drinking, rioting, fighting. Their home is such a home asyou have seen dozens of since you came here; the girl could not betterit if she tried, and would not know how to begin if she felt inclined. She has borne, they tell me, such treatment as would have killed mostwomen. She has been beaten, bruised, felled to the earth by this fatherof hers, who is said to be a perfect fiend in his cups. And yet sheholds to her place in their wretched hovel, and makes herself a slaveto the fellow with a dogged, stubborn determination. What can I do withsuch a case as that, Derrick?"

"You have tried to make friends with the girl?" said Derrick. 

Grace colored sensitively. 

"There is not a man, woman or child in the parish, " he answered, "withwhom I have not conscientiously tried to make friends, and thereis scarcely one, I think, with whom I have succeeded. Why can I notsucceed? Why do I always fail? The fault must be with myself----"

"A mistake that at the outset, " interposed Derrick. "There is no'fault' in the matter; there is simply misfortune. Your parishioners areso unfortunate as not to be able to understand you, and on your part youare so unfortunate as to fail at first to place yourself on the rightfooting with them. I say 'at first' you observe. Give yourself time, Grace, and give them time too. "

"Thank you, " said the Reverend Paul. "But speaking of this girl--'Thatlass o' Lowrie's, ' as she is always called--Joan I believe her name is. Joan Lowrie is, I can assure you, a weight upon me. I cannot help herand I cannot rid my mind of her. She stands apart from her fellows. Shehas most of the faults of her class, but none of their follies; and shehas the reputation of being half feared, half revered. The man who daredto approach her with the coarse love-making which is the fashion amongthem, would rue it to the last day of his life. She seems to defy allthe world. "

"And it is impossible to win upon her?"

"More than impossible. The first time I went to her with sympathy, Ifelt myself a child in her hands. She never laughed nor jeered at meas the rest do. She stood before me like a rock, listening until I hadfinished speaking. 'Parson, ' she said, 'if thal't leave me alone, I'llleave thee alone, ' and then turned about and walked into the house. Iam nothing but 'th' parson' to these people, and 'th' parson' is one forwhom they have little respect and no sympathy. "

He was not far wrong. The stolid heavy-natured colliers openlylooked down upon 'th' parson. ' A 'bit of a whipper snapper, ' even thebest-natured called him in sovereign contempt for his insignificantphysical proportions. Truly the sensitive little gentleman's lines hadnot fallen in pleasant places. And this was not all. There was anothersource of discouragement with which he had to battle in secret, thoughof this he would have felt it almost dishonor to complain. ButDerrick's keen eyes had seen it long ago, and, understanding it well, hesympathized with his friend accordingly. Yet, despite the many rebuffsthe curate had met with, he was not conquered by any means. His was notan easily subdued nature, after all. He was very warm on the subject ofJoan Lowrie this evening--so warm, indeed, that the interest the meresight of the girl had awakened in Derrick's mind was considerablyheightened. They were still speaking of her when they stopped before thedoor of Grace's modest lodgings. 

"You will come in, of course?" said Paul. 

"Yes, " Derrick answered, "for a short time. I am tired and shall feelall the better for a cup of Mrs. Burnie's tea, " pushing the hair backfrom his forehead, as he had a habit of doing when a little excited. 

He made the small parlor appear smaller than ever, when he entered it. He was obliged to bend his head when he passed through the door, and itwas not until he had thrown himself into the largest easy chair, thatthe trim apartment seemed to regain its countenance. 

Grace paused at the table, and with a sudden flush, took up a letterthat lay there among two or three uninteresting-looking epistles. 

"It is a note from Miss Anice, " he said, coming to the hearth andapplying his pen-knife in a gentle way to the small square envelope. 

"Not a letter, Grace?" said Derrick with a smile. 

"A letter! Oh dear, no! She has never written me a letter. They arealways notes with some sort of business object. She has very decidedviews on the subject of miscellaneous letter-writing. "

He read the note himself and then handed it to Derrick. 

It was a compact, decided hand, free from the suspicion of anunnecessary curve. 

 "Dear Mr. Grace, --

 "Many thanks for the book. You are very kind indeed. Pray let us hear something more about your people. I am afraid papa must find them very discouraging, but I cannot help feeling interested. Grandmamma wishes to be remembered to you, "With more thanks, "Believe me your friend, "Anice Barholm. "

Derrick refolded the note and handed it back to his friend. To tellthe truth, it did not impress him very favorably. A girl not yet twentyyears old, who could write such a note as this to a man who loved her, must be rather _too_ self-contained and well balanced. 

"You have never told me much of this story, Grace, " he said. 

"There is not much to tell, " answered the curate, flushing again. "Sheis the Rector's daughter. I have known her three years. You remember Iwrote to you about meeting her while you were in India. As for the rest, I do not exactly understand myself how it is that I have gone so far, having so--so little encouragement--in fact having had no encouragementat all; but, however that is, it has grown upon me, Derrick, --my feelingfor her has grown into my life. She has never cared for me. I am quitesure of that, you see. Indeed, I could hardly expect it. It is not herway to care for men as they are likely to care for her, though it willcome some day, I suppose--with the coming man, " half smiling. "She issimply what she signs herself here, my friend Anice Barholm, and I amthankful for that much. She would not write even that if she did notmean it. "

"Bless my soul, " broke in Derrick, tossing back his head impatiently;"and she is only nineteen yet, you say?"

"Only nineteen, " said the curate, with simple trustfulness in hisfriend's sympathy, "but different, you know, from any other woman I haveever seen. "

The tea and toast came in then, and they sat down together to partake ofit Derrick knew Anice quite well before the meal was ended, and yethe had not asked many questions. He knew how Grace had met her at herfather's house--an odd, self-reliant, very pretty and youthful-lookinglittle creature, with the force and decision of half a dozen ordinarywomen hidden in her small frame; how she had seemed to like him; howtheir intimacy had grown; how his gentle, deep-rooted passion had grownwith it; how he had learned to understand that he had nothing to hopefor. 

"I am a little fearful for the result of her first visit here, " saidGrace, pushing his cup aside and looking troubled. "I cannot bear tothink of her being disappointed and disturbed by the half-savage statein which these people live. She knows nothing of the mining districts. She has never been in Lancashire, and they have always lived in theSouth. She is in Kent now, with Mrs. Barholm's mother. And though I havetried, in my short letters to her, to prepare her for the rough side oflife she will be obliged to see, I am afraid it is impossible for her torealize it, and it may be a shock to her when she comes. "

"She is coming to Riggan then?" said Derrick. 

"In a few weeks. She has been visiting Mrs. Galloway since the Rectorgave up his living at Ashley wolde, and Mrs. Barholm told me to-day thatshe spoke in her last letter of coming to them. "

The moon was shining brightly when Derrick stepped out into the streetlater in the evening, and though the air was somewhat chill it was by nomeans unpleasant. He had rather a long walk before him. He dislikedthe smoke and dust of the murky little town, and chose to live on itsoutskirts; but he was fond of sharp exercise, and regarded the distancebetween his lodging and the field of his daily labor as an advantage. 

"I work off a great deal of superfluous steam between the two places, "he said to Grace at the door. "The wind coming across Boggart Brow has away of scattering and cooling restless plans and feverish fancies, thatis good for a man. Half a mile of the Knoll Road is often enough to blowall the morbidness out of a fellow. "

To-night by the time he reached the corner that turned him upon theKnoll Road, his mind had wandered upon an old track, but it had beendrawn there by a new object, --nothing other than Joan Lowrie, indeed. The impression made upon him by the story of Joan and her outcast lifewas one not easy to be effaced. The hardest miseries in the lot of aclass in whom he could not fail to be interested, were grouped aboutthat dramatic figure. He was struck, too, by a painful sense ofincongruity. 

"If she had been in this other girl's niche, " he said, "if she had livedthe life of this Anice----"

But he did not finish his sentence. Something, not many yards beyondhim, caught his eye--a figure seated upon the road-side near a collier'scottage--evidently a pit girl in some trouble, for her head was bowedupon her hands, and there was a dogged sort of misery expressed in hervery posture. 

"A woman, " he said aloud. "What woman, I wonder. This is not the timefor any woman to be sitting here alone. "

He crossed the road at once, and going to the girl, touched her lightlyon the shoulder. 

"My lass, " he said good-naturedly, "what ails you?"

She raised her head slowly as if she were dizzy and bewildered. Her facewas disfigured by a bruise, and on one temple was a cut from which theblood trickled down her cheek; but the moonlight showed him that it wasJoan. He removed his hand from her shoulder and drew back a pace. 

"You have been hurt!" he exclaimed. 

"Aye, " she answered deliberately, "I've had a hurt--a bad un. "

He did not ask her how she had been hurt. He knew as well as if she hadtold him, that it had been done in one of her father's fits of drunkenpassion. He had seen this sort of thing before during his sojourn in themining districts. But, shamefully repulsive as it had been to him, hehad never felt the degradation of it as fiercely as he did now. 

"You are Joan Lowrie?" he said. 

"Aye, I'm Joan Lowrie, if it 'll do yo' ony good to know. "

"You must have something done to that cut upon your temple. "

She put up her hand and wiped the blood away, as if impatient at hispersistence. 

"It 'll do well enow as it is, " she said. 

"That is a mistake, " he answered. "You are losing more blood than youimagine. Will you let me help you?"

She stirred uneasily. 

Derrick took no notice of the objection. He drew his handkerchieffrom his pocket, and, after some little effort, managed to stanch thebleeding, and having done so, bound the wound up. Perhaps somethingin his sympathetic silence and the quiet consideration of his mannertouched Joan. Her face, upturned almost submissively, for the momentseemed tremulous, and she set her lips together. She did not speak untilhe had finished, and then she rose and stood before him immovable asever. 

"Thank yo', " she said in a suppressed voice, "I canna say no more. "

"Never mind that, " he answered, "I could have done no less. If you couldgo home now----"

"I shall na go whoam to neet, " she interrupted him. 

"You cannot remain out of doors!" he exclaimed. 

"If I do, it wunnot be th' first toime, " meeting his startled glancewith a pride which defied him to pity or question her. But his sympathyand interest must have stirred her, for the next minute her mannersoftened. "I've done it often, " she added, "an' nowts nivver feared me. Yo' need na care, Mester, I'm used to it. "

"But I cannot go away and leave you here, " he said. 

"You canna do no other, " she answered. 

"Have you no friends?" he ventured hesitatingly. 

"No, I ha' not, " she said, hardening again, and she turned away as ifshe meant to end the discussion. But he would not leave her. The spiritof determination was as strong in his character as in her own. He torea leaf from his pocket-book, and, writing a few lines upon it, handed itto her. "If you will take that to Thwates' wife, " he said, "there willbe no necessity for your remaining out of doors all night. "

She took it from him mechanically; but when he finished speaking, hercalmness left her. Her hand began to tremble, and then her whole frame, and the next instant the note fell to the ground, and she dropped intoher old place again, sobbing passionately and hiding her face on herarms. 

"I wunnot tak' it!" she cried. "I wunnot go no wheer an' tell as I'mturned loike a dog into th' street. "

Her misery and shame shook her like a tempest. But she subdued herselfat last. 

"I dunnot see as yo' need care, " she protested half resentfully. "Otherfolk dunnot. I'm left to mysen most o' toimes. " Her head fell again andshe trembled from head to foot. 

"But I do care!" he returned. "I cannot leave you here and will not. Ifyou will trust me and do as I tell you, the people you go to need knownothing you do not choose to tell them. "

It was evident that his determination made her falter, and seeing thishe followed up his advantage and so far improved it that at last, aftera few more arguments, she rose slowly and picked up the fallen paper. 

"If I mun go, I mun, " she said, twisting it nervously in her fingers, and then there was a pause, in which she plainly lingered to saysomething, for she stood before him with a restrained air and downcastface. She broke the silence herself, however, suddenly looking up andfixing her large eyes full upon him. 

"If I was a lady, " she said, "happen I should know what to say to yo';but bein' what I am, I dunnot. Happen as yo're a gentleman yo' know whatI'd loike to say an' canna--happen yo' do. "

Even as she spoke, the instinct of defiance in her nature struggledagainst that of gratitude; but the finer instinct conquered. 

"We will not speak of thanks, " he said. "I may need help some day, andcome to you for it. "

"If yo' ivver need help at th' pit will yo' come to me?" she demanded. "I've seen th' toime as I could ha' gi'en help to th' Mesters ef I'd hadth' moind. If yo'll promise _that_----"

"I will promise it, " he answered her. 

"An' I'll promise to gi' it yo', " eagerly. "So that's settled. Now I'llgo my ways. Good neet to yo'. "

"Good night, " he returned, and uncovering with as grave a courtesy as hemight have shown to the finest lady in the land, or to his own mother orsister, he stood at the road-side and watched her until she was out ofsight. 

CHAPTER II. - "Liz"

"Th' owd lad's been at his tricks again, " was the rough comment madeon Joan Lowrie's appearance when she came down to her work the nextmorning; but Joan looked neither right nor left, and went to her placewithout a word. Not one among them had ever heard her speak of hermiseries and wrongs, or had known her to do otherwise than ignore thefact that their existence was well known among her fellow-workers. 

When Derrick passed her on his way to his duties, she looked up fromher task with a faint, quick color, and replied to his courteous gesturewith a curt yet not ungracious nod. It was evident that not even hergratitude would lead her to encourage any advances. But, notwithstandingthis, he did not feel repelled or disappointed. He had learned enough ofJoan, in their brief interview, to prepare him to expect no other mannerfrom her. He was none the less interested in the girl because hefound himself forced to regard her curiously and critically, and at adistance. 

He watched her as she went about her work, silent, self-contained andsolitary. 

"That lass o' Lowrie's!" said a superannuated old collier once, inanswer to a remark of Derrick's. "Eh! hoo's a rare un, hoo is! Th'fellys is haaf feart on her. Tha' sees hoo's getten a bit o' skoolin'. Hoo con read a bit, if tha'll believe it, Mester, " with a touch ofpride. 

"Not as th' owd chap ivver did owt fur her i' that road, " the speakerwent on, nothing loath to gossip with 'one o' th' Mesters. ' "He nivverdid nowt fur her but spend her wage i' drink. But theer wur a neetskoo' here a few years sen', an' th' lass went her ways wi' a few o' th'steady uns, an' they say as she getten ahead on 'em aw, so as it wur awonder. Just let her set her mind to do owt an' she'll do it. "

"Here, " said Derrick to Paul that night, as the engineer leaned back inhis easy chair, glowering at the grate and knitting his brows, "Here, "he said, "is a creature with the majesty of a Juno--though reallynothing but a girl in years--who rules a set of savages by the merepower of a superior will and mind, and yet a woman who works at themouth of a coal-pit, --who cannot write her own name, and who is beatenby her fiend of a father as if she were a dog. Good Heaven! what is shedoing here? What does it all mean?"

The Reverend Paul put up his delicate hand deprecatingly. 

"My dear Fergus, " he said, "if I dare--if my own life and the lives ofothers would let me--I think I should be tempted to give it up, as onegives up other puzzles, when one is beaten by them. "

Derrick looked at him, forgetting himself in a sudden sympatheticcomprehension. 

"You have been more than ordinarily discouraged to-day, " he said. "Whatis it, Grace?"

"Do you know Sammy Craddock?" was the reply. 

"'Owd Sammy Craddock'?" said Derrick with a laugh. "Wasn't it 'OwdSammy, ' who was talking to me to-day about Joan Lowrie?"

"I dare say it was, " sighing. "And if you know Sammy Craddock, you knowone of the principal causes of my discouragement. I went to see him thisafternoon, and I have not quite--. Quite got over it, in fact. "

Derrick's interest in his friend's trials was stirred as usual at thefirst signal of distress. It was the part of his stronger and moreevenly balanced nature to be constantly ready with generous sympathy andcomfort. 

"It has struck me, " he said, "that Craddock is one of the institutionsof Riggan. I should like to hear something definite concerning him. Whyis he your principal cause of discouragement, in the first place?"

"Because he is the man of all others whom it is hard for me to dealwith, --because he is the shrewdest, the most irreverent and the mostdisputatious old fellow in Riggan. And yet, in the face of all this, because he is so often right, I am forced into a sort of respect forhim. "

"Right!" repeated Derrick, raising his eyebrows. "That's bad. "

Grace rose from the chair, flushing up to the roots of his hair, --

"Right!" he reiterated. "Yes, _right_ I say. And how, I ask you, can aman battle against the faintest element of right and truth, even when itwill and _must_ arraign itself on the side of wrong? If I could shut myeyes to the right, and see only the wrong, I might leave myself at leasta blind content, but I cannot--i cannot. If I could look upon thesethings as Barholm does----" But here he stopped, suddenly checkinghimself. 

"Thank God you cannot, " put in Derrick quietly. 

For a few minutes the Reverend Paul paced the room in silence. 

"Among the men who were once his fellow-workers, Craddock is an oracle, "he went on. "His influence is not unlike Joan Lowrie's. It is theinfluence of a strong mind over weaker ones. His sharp sarcasticspeeches are proverbs among the Rigganites; he amuses them and can makethem listen to him. When he holds up 'Th' owd parson' to their ridicule, he sweeps all before him. He can undo in an hour what I have struggled ayear to accomplish. He was a collier himself until he becamesuperannuated, and he knows their natures, you see. "

"What has he to say about Barholm?" asked Derrick--without looking athis friend, however. 

"Oh!" he protested, "that is the worst side of it--that ismiserable--that is wretched! I may as well speak openly. Barholm is hisstrong card, and that is what baffles me. He scans Barholm with the eyeof an eagle. He does not spare a single weakness. He studies him--heknows his favorite phrases and gestures by heart, and has used themuntil there is not a Riggan collier who does not recognize them whenthey are presented to him, and applaud them as an audience might applaudthe staple jokes of a popular actor. "

Explained even thus far, the case looked difficult enough; but Derrickfelt no wonder at his friend's discouragement when he had heard hisstory to the end, and understood it fully. 

The living at Riggan had never been happily managed. It had beenpresented to men who did not understand the people under their charge, and to men whom the people failed to understand; but possibly it hadnever before fallen into the hands of a man who was so little qualifiedto govern Rigganites, as was the present rector, the Reverend HaroldBarholm. A man who has mistaken his vocation, and who has become ever sofaintly conscious of his blunder, may be a stumbling-block in another'spath; but restrained as he will be by his secret pangs of conscience, hecan scarcely be an active obstructionist. But a man who, having mistakenthe field of his life's labor, yet remains amiably self-satisfied, andunconscious of his unfitness, may do more harm in his serene ignorancethan he might have done good if he had chosen his proper sphere. Sucha man as the last was the Reverend Harold. A good-natured, broad-shouldered, tactless, self-sufficient person, he had taken up hiswork with a complacent feeling that no field of labor could fail to bebenefited by his patronage; he was content now as always. He had beencontent with himself and his intellectual progress at Oxford; he hadbeen content with his first parish at Ashley-wold; he had been contentthen with the gentle-natured, soft-spoken Kentish men and women; he hadnever feared finding himself unequal to the guidance of their souls, andhe was not at all troubled by the prospect Riggan presented to him. 

"It is a different sort of thing, " he said to his curate, in the best ofspirits, "and new to us--new of course; but we shall get over that--weshall get over that easily enough, Grace. "

So with not a shadow of a doubt as to his speedy success, and with acomfortable confidence in ecclesiastical power, in whomsoever vested, hecalled upon his parishioners one after the other. He appeared at theircottages at all hours, and gave the same greeting to each of them. Hewas their new rector, and having come to Riggan with the intention ofdoing them good, and improving their moral condition, he intended to dothem good, and improve them, in spite of themselves. They must come tochurch: it was their business to come to church, as it was his businessto preach the gospel. All this implied, in half an hour's half-friendly, half-ecclesiastical conversation, garnished with a few favorite textsand religious platitudes, and the man felt that he had done his duty, and done it well. 

Only one man nonplussed him, and even this man's effect upon him wastemporary, only lasting as long as his call. He had been met with adogged resentment in the majority of his visits, but when he encountered'Owd Sammy Craddock' he encountered a different sort of opposition. 

"Aye, " said Owd Sammy, "an' so tha'rt th' new rector, art ta? I thowt asmich as another ud spring up as soon as th' owd un wur cut down. Thaparsens is a nettle as dunnot soon dee oot. Well, I'll leave thee to th'owd lass here. Hoo's a rare un fur gab when hoo' taks th' notion, an'I'm noan so mich i' th' humor t' argufy mysen today. " And he took hispipe from the mantelpiece and strolled out with an imperturbable air. But this was not the last of the matter. The Rector went again andagain, cheerfully persisting in bringing the old sinner to a propersense of his iniquities. There would be some triumph in converting sucha veteran as Sammy Craddock, and he was confident of winning this laurelfor himself. But the result was scarcely what he expected. 'Owd Sammy'stood his ground like an old soldier. The fear of man was not before hiseyes, and 'parsens' were his favorite game. He was as contumacious andprofane as such men are apt to be, and he delighted in scattering hisclerical antagonists as a task worthy of his mettle. He encountered theReverend Harold with positive glee. He jeered at him in public, andsneered at him in private, and held him up to the mockery of the colliermen and lads, with the dramatic mimicry which made him so popular acharacter. As Derrick had said, Sammy Craddock was a Riggan institution. In his youth, his fellows had feared his strength; in his old age theyfeared his wit. "Let Owd Sammy tackle him, " they said, when a new-comerwas disputatious, and hard to manage; "Owd Sammy's th' one to gi' himone fur his nob. Owd Sammy'll fettle him--graidely. " And the fact wasthat Craddock's cantankerous sharpness of brain and tongue were usuallyefficacious. So he "tackled" Barholm, and so he "tackled" the curate. But, for some reason, he was never actually bitter against Grace. Hespoke of him lightly, and rather sneered at his physical insignificance;but he did not hold him up to public ridicule. 

"I hav' not quite settled i' my moind about th' little chap, " he wouldsay sententiously to his admirers. "He's noan siccan a foo' as th' owdun, for he's a graidely foo', _he_ is, and no mistake. At any rate alittle foo' is better nor a big un. "

And there the matter stood. Against these tremendous odds Gracefought--against coarse and perverted natures, --worse than all, againstthe power that should have been ranged upon his side. And added to thesediscouragements, were the obstacles of physical delicacy, and an almostmorbid conscientiousness. A man of coarser fibre might have borne theburden better--or at least with less pain to himself. 

"A drop or so of Barholm's blood in Grace's veins, " said Derrick, communing with himself on the Knoll Road after their interview--"a fewdrops of Barholm's rich, comfortable, stupid blood in Grace's veinswould not harm him. And yet it would have to be but a few drops indeed, "hastily. "On the whole I think it would be better if he had more bloodof his own. "

The following day Miss Barholm came. Business had taken Derrick to thestation in the morning, and being delayed, he was standing upon theplatform when one of the London trains came in. There were generally sofew passengers on such trains who were likely to stop at Riggan, thatthe few who did so were of some interest to the bystanders. Accordinglyhe stood gazing, in rather a preoccupied fashion, at the carriages, whenthe door of a first-class compartment opened, and a girl stepped outupon the platform near him. Before seeing her face one might haveimagined her to be a child of scarcely more than fourteen or fifteen. This was Derrick's first impression; but when she turned toward him hesaw at once that it was not a child. And yet it was a small face, withdelicate oval features, smooth, clear skin, and stray locks of hazelbrown hair that fell over the low forehead. She had evidently made ajourney of some length, for she was encumbered with travelling wraps, and in her hands she held a little flower-pot containing a cluster ofearly blue violets, --such violets as would not bloom so far north asRiggan for weeks to come. She stood upon the platform for a moment orso, glancing up and down as if in search of some one, and then, plainlydeciding that the object of her quest had not arrived, she looked atDerrick in a business-like, questioning way. She was going to speak tohim. The next minute she stepped forward without a shadow of girlishhesitation. 

"May I trouble you to tell me where I can find a conveyance of somesort?" she said. "I want to go to the Rectory. "

Derrick uncovered, recognizing his friend's picture at once. 

"I think, " he said with far more hesitancy than she had herself shown, "that this must be Miss Barholm. "

"Yes, " she answered, "Anice Barholm. I think, " she said, "from what Mr. Grace has said to me, that you must be his friend. "

"I am _one_ of Grace's friends, " he answered, "Fergus Derrick. "

She managed to free one of her small hands, and held it out to him. 

She had arrived earlier than had been expected, it turned out, andthrough some mysterious chance or other, her letters to her friendshad not preceded her, so there was no carriage in waiting, and but forDerrick she would have been thrown entirely upon her own resources. Butafter their mutual introduction the two were friends at once, and beforehe had put her into the cab, Derrick had begun to understand what it wasthat led the Reverend Paul to think her an exceptional girl. She knewwhere her trunks were, and was quite definite upon the subject of whatmust be done with them. Though pretty and frail looking enough, therewas no suggestion of helplessness about her. When she was safely seatedin the cab, she spoke to Derrick through the open window. 

"If you will come to the Rectory to-night, and let papa thank you, " shesaid, "we shall all be very glad. Mr. Grace will be there, you know, andI have a great many questions to ask which I think you must be able toanswer. "

Derrick went back to his work, thinking about Miss Barholm, of course. She was different from other girls, he felt, not only in her fragileframe and delicate face, but with another more subtle and less easilydefined difference. There was a suggestion of the development in a childof the soul of a woman. 

Going down to the mine, Derrick found on approaching that there was somecommotion among the workers at the pit's mouth, and before he turnedin to his office, he paused upon the threshold for a few minutes to seewhat it meant. But it was not a disturbance with which it was easy foran outsider to interfere. A knot of women drawn away from their workby some prevailing excitement, were gathered together around a girl--apretty but pale and haggard creature, with a helpless, despairingface--who stood at bay in the midst of them, clasping a child to herbosom--a target for all eyes. It was a wretched sight, and told its ownstory. 

"Wheer ha' yo' been, Liz?" Derrick heard two or three voices exclaim atonce. "What did you coom back for? This is what thy handsome face hasbrowt thee to, is it?"

And then the girl, white, wild-eyed and breathless with excitement, turned on them, panting, bursting into passionate tears. 

"Let me a-be:" she cried, sobbing. "There's none of yo' need to talk. Let me a-be! I didna coom back to ax nowt fro' none on you! Eh Joan!Joan Lowrie?"

Derrick turned to ascertain the meaning of this cry of appeal, butalmost before he had time to do so, Joan herself had borne down uponthe group; she had pushed her way through it, and was standing in thecentre, confronting the girl's tormentors in a flame of wrath, and Lizwas clinging to her. 

"What ha' they been sayin' to yo', lass?" she demanded. "Eh! but yo're abrave lot, yo' are--women yo' ca' yo'rsens!--badgerin' a slip o' a wenchloike this. "

"I did na coom back to ax nowt fro' noan o' them, " sobbed the girl. "I'dray ther dee ony day nor do it! I'd rayther starve i' th' ditch--an'it's comin' to that. "

"Here, " said Joan, "gi' me th' choild. "

She bent down and took it from her, and then stood up before them all, holding it high in her strong arms--so superb, so statuesque, and yetso womanly a figure, that a thrill shot through the heart of the manwatching her. 

"Lasses, " she cried, her voice fairly ringing, "do yo' see this? A bito' a helpless thing as canna answer back yo're jeers! Aye! look at itwell, aw' on yo'. Some on yo's getten th' loike at whoam. An' when yo'velooked at th' choild, look at th' mother! Seventeen year owd, Liz is, an' th' world's gone wrong wi' her. I wunnot say as th' world's goneower reet wi' ony on us; but them on us as has had th' strength tohowd up agen it, need na set our foot on them as has gone down. Happentheer's na so much to choose betwixt us after aw. But I've gotten thisto tell yo'--them as has owt to say o' Liz, mun say it to Joan Lowrie!"

Rough, and coarsely pitiless as the majority of them were, she hadtouched the right chord. Perhaps the bit of the dramatic in herchampionship of the girl had as much to do with the success of herhalf-commanding appeal as anything else. But at least, the most hardenedof them faltered before her daring, scornful words, and the fire in herface. Liz would be safe enough from them henceforth, it was plain. 

That evening while arranging his papers before going home, Derrick wascalled from his work by a summons at the office door, and going to openit, he found Joan Lowrie standing there, looking half abashed, halfdetermined. 

"I ha' summat to ax yo', " she said briefly, declining his invitation toenter and be seated. 

"If there is anything I can do for--" began Derrick. 

"It is na mysen, " she interrupted him. "There is a poor lass as I'm fainto help, if I could do it, but I ha' not th' power. I dunnot know of anyone as has, except yo'rsen and th' parson, an' I know more o' yo' thanI do o' th' parson, so I thowt I'd ax yo' to speak to him about th' poorwench, an ax him if he could get her a bit o' work as ud help to keepher honest. "

Derrick looked at her handsome face gravely, curiously. 

"I saw you defend this girl against some of her old companions, a fewhours ago, I believe, " he said. 

She colored, but did not return his glance. 

"I dunnot believe in harryin' women down th' hill, " she said. 

Then, suddenly, she raised her eyes. 

"Th' little un is a little lass, " she said, "an' I canna bide th' thowto' what moight fa' on her if her mother's life is na an honest un--Icanna bide the thowt on it. "

"I will see my friend to-night, " said Derrick, "and I will speak to him. Where can he find the girl?"

"Wi' me, " she answered. "I'm taken both on 'em whoam wi' me. "

CHAPTER III - The Reverend Harold Barholm

When the Reverend Paul entered the parlor at the Rectory, he found thathis friend had arrived before him. Mr. Barholm, his wife and Anice, withtheir guest, formed a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glancethat Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the centrefigure. He was talking and the others were listening--Mr. Barholm inhis usual restless fashion, Mrs. Barholm with evident interest, Aniceleaning forward on her ottoman, listening eagerly. 

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Barholm, when the servant announced the visitor, "this is fortunate. Here is Grace. Glad to see you, Grace. Take a seatWe are talking about an uncommonly interesting case. I dare say you knowthe young woman. "

Anice looked up. 

"We are talking about Joan Lowrie, " she said. "Mr. Derrick is telling usabout her. "

"Most interesting affair--from beginning to end, " continued the Rector, briskly. "Something must be done for the young woman. We must go and seeher, --I will go and see her myself. "

He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, self-securestyle. Ecclesiastical patronage would certainly set this young womanright at once. There was no doubt of that. And who was so well qualifiedto bestow it as himself?

"Yes, yes! I will go myself, " he said. "That kind of people is easilymanaged, when once one understands them. There really is some goodin them, after all. You see, Grace, it is as I have told you--onlyunderstand them, and make them understand you, and the rest is easy. "

Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear eyes of the girlrested on the man with a curious expression. 

"Do you think, " she said quickly, "that they like us to go and see themin that sort of way, papa? Do you think it is wise to remind them thatwe know more than they do, and that if they want to learn they mustlearn from us, just because we have been more fortunate? It really seemsto me that the rebellious ones would ask themselves what right we had tobe more fortunate. "

"My dear, " returned the Rector, somewhat testily--he was not partial tothe interposition of obstacles even in suggestion--"My dear, if you hadbeen brought into contact with these people as closely as I have, oreven as Grace has, you would learn that they are not prone to regardthings from a metaphysical stand-point. Metaphysics are not in theirline. They are more apt to look upon life as a matter of bread and baconthan as a problem. "

A shadow fell upon Anice's face, and before the visit ended, Derrickhad observed its presence more than once. It was always her father whosummoned it, he noticed. And yet it was evident enough that she wasfond of the man, and in no ordinary degree, and that the affection wasmutual. As he was contented with himself, so Barholm was contentedwith his domestic relations. He was fond of his wife, and fond of hisdaughter, as much, perhaps, through his appreciation of his owngood taste in wedding such a wife, and becoming the father of such adaughter, as through his appreciation of their peculiar charms. He wasproud of them and indulgent to them. They reflected a credit on him ofwhich he felt himself wholly deserving. 

"They are very fond of him, " remarked Grace afterward to his friend;"which shows that there must be a great deal of virtue in the man. Indeed there _is_ a great deal of virtue in him. You yourself, Derrick, must have observed a certain kindliness and--and open generosity, " witha wistful sound in his voice. 

There was always this wistful appeal in the young man's tone when hespoke of his clerical master--a certain anxiety to make the best ofhim, and refrain from any suspicion of condemnation. Derrick was alwaysreminded by it of the shadow on Anice's face. 

"I want to tell you something, " Miss Barholm said this evening to Graceat parting. "I do not think I am afraid of Riggan at all. I think Ishall like it all the better because it is so new. Everything is soearnest and energetic, that it is a little bracing--like the atmosphere. Perhaps--when the time comes--I could do something to help you withthat girl. I shall try at any rate. " She held out her hand to him witha smile, and the Reverend Paul went home feeling not a little comfortedand encouraged. 

The Rector stood with his back to the fire, his portly person expressingintense satisfaction. 

"You will remind me about that young woman in the morning, Anice, " hesaid. "I should like to attend to the matter myself. Singular that Graceshould not have mentioned her before. It really seems to me, you know, that now and then Grace is a little deficient in interest, or energy. "

"Surely not interest, my dear, " suggested Mrs. Barholm, gently. 

"Well, well, " conceded the Rector, "perhaps not interest, but energyor--or appreciation. I should have seen such a fine creature'ssuperiority, and mentioned it at once. She must be a fine creature. Ayoung woman of that kind should be encouraged. I will go and see her inthe morning--if it were not so late I would go now. Really, she ought tobe told that she has exhibited a very excellent spirit, and that peopleapprove of it. I wonder what sort of a household servant she would makeif she were properly trained?"

"That would not do at all, " put in Anice, decisively. "From the pit'smouth to the kitchen would not be a natural transition. "

"Well, well, as usual, perhaps you are right. There is plenty of time tothink of it, however. We can judge better when we have seen her. "

He did not need reminding in the morning. He was as full of vague plansfor Joan Lowrie when he arose as he had been when he went to bed. Hecame down to the charming breakfast-room in the most sanguine of moods. But then his moods usually were sanguine. It was scarcely to be wonderedat. Fortune had treated him with great suavity from his earliest years. Wellborn, comfortably trained, healthy and easy-natured, the world hadalways turned its pleasant side to him. As a young man, he had beena strong, handsome fellow, whose convenient patrimony had placed himbeyond the possibility of entire dependence upon his profession. Whena curate he had been well enough paid and without privateresponsibilities; when he married he was lucky enough to win a woman whoadded to his comfort; in fact, life had gone smoothly with him for solong that he had no reason to suspect Fate of any intention to treat himill-naturedly. It was far more likely that she would reserve her scurvytricks for some one else. 

Even Riggan had not perplexed him at all. Its difficulties were notsuch as would be likely to disturb him greatly. One found ignorance, andvice, and discomfort among the lower classes always; there was the samething to contend against in the agricultural as in the mining districts. And the Rectory was substantial and comfortable, even picturesque. Thehouse was roomy, the garden large and capable of improvement; therewere trees in abundance, ivy on the walls, and Anice would do the rest. The break-fast-room looked specially encouraging this morning. Anice, ina pretty pale blue gown, and with a few crocuses at her throat, awaitedhis coming behind the handsomest of silver and porcelain, reading hisfavorite newspaper the while. Her little pot of emigrant violets exhaleda faint, spring-like odor from their sunny place at the window; therewas a vase of crocuses, snow-drops and ivy leaves in the centre of thetable; there was sunshine outside and comfort in. The Rector had a goodappetite and an unimpaired digestion. Anice rose when he entered, andtouched the bell. 

"Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a while, " she said. "Shetold me we were not to wait for her. " And then she brought him hisnewspaper and kissed him dutifully. 

"Very glad to see you home again, I am sure, my dear, " remarked theRector. "I have really missed you very much. What excellent coffee thisis!--another cup, if you please. " And, after a pause, "I think really, you know, " he proceeded, "that you will not find theplace unpleasant, after all. For my part, I think it is well enough--forsuch a place; one cannot expect Belgravian polish in Lancashire miners, and certainly one does not meet with it; but it is well to make the bestof things. I get along myself reasonably well with the people. I do notencounter the difficulties Grace complains of. "

"Does he complain?" asked Anice; "I did not think he exactlycomplained. "

"Grace is too easily discouraged, " answered the Rector in off-handedexplanation. "And he is apt to make blunders. He speaks of, and to, these people as if they were of the same fibre as himself. He does nottake hold of things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but heis not good at reading character. That other young fellow now--Derrick, the engineer--would do twice as well in his place. What do you think ofthat young fellow, by the way, my dear?"

"I like him, " said Anice. "He will help Mr. Grace often. "

"Grace needs a support of some kind, " returned Mr. Barholm, frowningslightly, "and he does not seem to rely very much upon me--not so muchas I would wish. I don't quite understand him at times; the fact is, it has struck me once or twice, that he preferred to take his own path, instead of following mine. "

"Papa, " commented Anice, "I scarcely think he is to blame for that. Iam sure it is always best, that conscientious, thinking people--and Mr. Grace is a thinking man--should have paths of their own. "

Mr. Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. His own obstinacyconfronted him sometimes through Anice in a finer, more baffling form. 

"Grace is a young man, my dear, " he said, "and--and not a verystrong-minded one. "

"I cannot believe that is true, " said Anice. "I do not think we canblame his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr. Grace himself hasmore power than you and mamma and myself all put together. "

One of Alice's peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, but for its innate refinement, and its sincerity, might haveimpressed people as being a fault When she pushed her opposition in thatsteady, innocent way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind an innerconsciousness which "knew better, " and was fully satisfied on the pointof its own knowledge. 

When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with the air of aman who had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to thehearth. 

"You are going out, I suppose, " she said. 

"I am going to see Joan Lowrie, " he said complacently. "And I haveseveral calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that youwill call on her?"

Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of thesteel fender. 

"Joan Lowrie?" she said reflectively. 

"Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feelthat we are interested in her. "

"I should scarcely think--from what Mr. Grace and his friend say--thatshe is the kind of a girl to be reached in that way, " said Anice. 

The Rector shrugged his shoulders. 

"My dear, " he answered, "if we are always to depend upon what Gracesays, we shall often find ourselves in a dilemma. If you are going towait until these collier young women call on you after the manner ofpolite society, I am afraid you will have time to lose interest in themand their affairs. "

He had no scruples of his own on the subject of his errand. He felt verycomfortable as usual, as he wended his way through the village towardLowrie's cottage, on the Knoll Road. He did not ask himself what heshould say to the collier young woman, and her unhappy charge. Orthodoxphrases with various distinct flavors--the flavor of encouragement, theflavor of reproof, the flavor of consolation, --were always ready withthe man; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. Theflavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning; the flavor ofrebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiasticaldignity, bestowing a curt, but not unamiable word of recognition hereand there. Unkempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbleson the flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of awe, notun-mingled with secret resentment; women lounging on door-steps, holdingbabies on their hips, stared in critical sullenness as he went by. 

"Theer's th' owd parson, " commented one sharp-tongued matron. "Hoo'sgoin' to teach some one summat, I warrant What th' owd lad dunnot knowis na worth knowin'. Eh! hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy, if tha dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'lt be gettin' a hidin'. "

Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' homes were, Lowrie's cottagewas a trifle less inviting than the majority. It stood upon theroadside, an ugly little bare place, with a look of stubborn desolation, its only redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The samecleanliness reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered; and yet onthe whole there was a stamp upon it which made it a place scarcely tobe approved of. Before the low fire sat a girl with a child on her knee, and this girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, andmet him with a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale face. 

"Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan, " she said, without waiting forhim to speak. "Both on 'em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here but me, "and she held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to havehidden it. 

Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to be welcome, if hewere not. 

"At the pit, are they?" he answered. "Dear me! I might have rememberedthat they would be at this time. Well, well; I will take a seat, mygirl, and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister atthe church--Mr. Barholm?"

Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe-begone, stood upbefore him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself. 

"I--I dunnot know nobody much now, " she stammered. "I--I've been awayfro' Riggan sin' afore yo' comn--if yo're th' new parson, " and then shecolored nervously and became fearfully conscious of her miserable littleburden, "I've heerd Joan speak o' th' young parson, " she faltered. 

Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, childish creatureshe was, with her pretty face, and her baby, and her characterless, frightened way. She was only one of many--poor Liz, ignorant, emotional, weak, easily led, ready to err, unable to bear the consequences oferror, not strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not strong enough tobe anything in particular, but that which her surroundings made her. If she had been well-born and well brought up, she would have been apretty, insipid girl, who needed to be taken care of; as it was, she had"gone wrong. " The excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she mustbe awakened. 

"You are the girl Elizabeth?" he said. 

"I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes, " she answered, pulling at the hem of her child'ssmall gown, "but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz. "

Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. "Sit down, " he said, "Iwant to talk to you. "

Liz obeyed him; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distasteand hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap; her fingerswere busy plaiting up folds of the little gown. 

"I dunnot want to be talked to, " she whimpered. "I dunnot know as talkcan do folk as is i' trouble any good--an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'outtalk. "

"We must remember whence the trouble comes, " answered the minister, "andif the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we mustbear our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to thefountain head. We must ask for grace, and--and sanctification ofspirit. "

"I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head, " sobbed Liz aggrieved. "I amna religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methodynivver did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want Joan Lowrie is naa Methody. "

"If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I amsorry to hear it, " with increased gravity of demeanor. "Without theredeeming blood how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the Crossyou would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, mygirl, that this, " with a motion toward the frail creature on her knee, "is a very terrible thing. "

Liz burst into piteous sobs--crying like an abused child:

"I know it's hard enow, " she cried; "I canna get work neyther at th' pitnor at th' factories, as long as I mun drag it about, an' I ha' notgot a place to lay my head, on'y this. If it wur na for Joan, I mightstarve, and the choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I--Iwur very fond o' _him_--I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' me, an' he wura gentleman too. He were no laboring-man, an' he wur kind to me, untilhe got tired. Them sort allus gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. Iwish I'd ha' towd Joan at first, an' axed her what to do. "

Barholm passed his hand through his hair uneasily. This shallow, inconsequent creature baffled him. Her shame, her grief, her misery, were all mere straws eddying on the pool of her discomfort It was nother sin that crushed her, it was the consequence of it; hers was not asorrow, it was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosperousoutwardly, she would have felt no inward pang. 

It became more evident to him than ever that something must be done, andhe applied himself to his task of reform to the best of his ability. But he exhausted his repertory of sonorous phrases in vain. His graveexhortations only called forth fresh tears, and a new elementof resentment; and, to crown all, his visit terminated with adiscouragement of which his philosophy had never dreamed. 

In the midst of his most eloquent reproof, a shadow darkened thethreshold, and as Liz looked up with the explanation--"Joan!" a youngwoman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, herthroat bare, her fus-tian jacket hanging over her arm. She glanced fromone to the other questioningly, knitting her brows slightly at the sightof Liz's tears. In answer to her glance Liz spoke querulously. 

"It's th' parson, Joan, " she said. "He comn to talk like th' rest on 'eman' he maks me out too ill to burn. "

Just at that moment the child set up a fretful cry and Joan crossed theroom and took it up in her arms. 

"Yo've feart th' choild betwixt yo', " she said, "if yo've managed to donowt else. "

"I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, " explained Barholm somewhatcurtly, "I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, to endeavor to bringyour friend to a proper sense of her position. "

Joan turned toward him. 

"Has tha done it?" she asked. 

The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dyingout. 

"I--I--" he stammered. 

Joan interrupted him. 

"Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?" she demanded. "I dunnotmysen. "

"I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve her mentalcondition, " the minister replied. 

"I thowt as much, " said Joan; "I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but ifyo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theeris na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her thatshe's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen theer is na a parson'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it 'll do yo' fur this toime, an' yo' can let her be for a while. "

Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and ashe sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as itinvariably did. 

"I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice, " he said. 

Anice looked up questioningly. 

"Why?" she asked. 

"I went to see Joan Lowrie this morning, " he answered hesitatingly, "andI am very much disappointed in her. I scarcely think, after all, that Iwould advise you to take her in hand. She is not an amiable young woman. In fact there is a positive touch of the vixen about her. "

CHAPTER IV - "Love Me, Love My Dog"

Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turn-ing to Anice for it, whenhe required information concerning people and things. In her desultorypilgrimages, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he wasdeaf to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who passed toand from their work at the mine, drew her to the window whenever theymade their appearance. She longed to know something definite of them--toget a little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men andwomen, passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each other who shewas, decided upon her relationship to the family. 

"Hoo's th' owd parson's lass, " somebody said. "Hoo's noan so bad lookin'neyther, if hoo was na sich a bit o' a thing. "

The people who had regarded Mr. Barholm with a spice of disfavor, stillcould not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternlywomen nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children staredafter their usual fashion; but even the hardest-natured matron couldfind nothing more condemnatory to say than, "Hoo's noan Lancashire, that's plain as th' nose on a body's face;" or, "Theer is na much onher, at ony rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lass wi'out much blood i'her. "

Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was usedto being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have agreat deal of hard, common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendencyto depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear one'sown misfortunes, than to bear the good-fortune of better-used people. That is the insult added by Fate to injury. 

Riggan was a crooked, rambling, cross-grained little place. From the onewide street with its jumble of old, tumble-down shops, and glaring newones, branched out narrow, up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged bycolliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, wherebread and bacon were ranged alongside potatoes and flabby cabbages;ornithological specimens made of pale sweet cake, and adorned withstartling black currant eyes, rested unsteadily against the window-pane, a sore temptation to the juvenile populace. 

It was in one of these side streets that Anice met with her firstadventure. 

Turning the corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a groupof children, followed almost immediately by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anicepaused for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited littlecrowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heartof it. The two boys who were the principal figures, were fightingfrantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows, with not unscientific fists. Now and then a fierce, red, boyish face wasto be seen, and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercerand hotter, while the dog--a small, shrewd sharp-nosed terrier--barkedat the combatants' heels, snapping at one pair, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the excitement. 

"Boys!" cried Anice. "What's the mat-ter?"

"They're feighten, " remarked a philosophical young by-stander, withplacid interest, --"an' Jud Bates'll win. "

It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think ofinterfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voiceaddressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidentlyresenting the unexpected intrusion. 

"What is it all about?" demanded the girl. "Tell me. "

The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat downbreathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. Oneof the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and, as a naturalconsequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extentof his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak. 

"Why could na he let me a-be then?" he asked irately. "I was na doin'owt t' him. "

"Yea, tha was, " retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old. 

"Nay, I was na. "

"Yea, tha was. "

"Well, " said Anice, "what _was_ he doing?"

"Aye, " cried the first youngster, "tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th'first punse?" excitedly doubling his fist again. "I didna. "

"Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thyclog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd doit agen fur--"

"Wait a minute, " said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. "Who isNib?"

"Nib's my dog, " surlily. "An' them as punses him, has getten to punseme. "

Anice bent down and patted the small animal. 

"He seems a very nice dog, " she said. "What did you kick him for?"

Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate thevirtues of "th' best tarrier i' Riggan, " could not be regarded whollywith contempt, or even indifference. 

"He kicked him fur nowt, " he answered. "He's allus at uther him or me. He bust my kite, an' he cribbed my marvels, didn't he?" appealing to theby-standers. 

"Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels my-sen. He wur mad 'cos Judwur winnen, and then he kicked Nib. "

Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in hismanifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attested. 

"Aye, " he said, "an' I did na set on him at first neyther. I nivver seton him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels, an' he may ca' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer!"

It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievouslyin the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemedready--when once the tongues were loosed--to say a word for Jud and"th' best tarrier i'Riggan. " For a few minutes Anice could scarcely makeherself heard. 

"You are a good boy to take care of your dog, " she said to Jud--"andthough fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy, "gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at theenemy--"perhaps if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. _You_are a coward, " she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, whoslinked sulkily out of sight. 

"Owd Sammy Craddock, " lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watchedAnice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewdchuckle. 

"Eh! eh!" he commented; "so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it? Wall, hoo may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'llwarrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench. "

"Owd Sammy's" amused chuckles, and exclamations of "Eh! hoo's a rareun--that hoo is--fur a wench, " at last drew his wife's attention. Thegood woman pounced upon him sharply. 

"Tha'rt an owd yommer-head, " she said. "What art tha ramblin' about now?Who is it as is siccan a rare un?"

Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands. 

"Why, " said he, "I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'llgi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i'th' thick of a foight among th' lads? I know thou'st nivver guess. "

"Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther, "testily. 

"Why, " slapping his knee, "th' owd parson's lass. A little wench notmuch higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skim-milk, butsteady and full o' pluck as an owd un. "

"Nay now, tha dost na say so? What wor she doin' an' how did she cometheer? Tha mun ha' been dreamin'!"

"Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee an' heerd ivveryword she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her! Hoo med as if hoo'd livedwi' lads aw her days. Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wurfeightin about Nib--at it tooth and nail--an' th' lass sees 'em, an'marches into th' thick, an' sets 'em to reets. Yo' should ha' seen her!An' hoo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoodoes na know but what hoo'd fowt hersen i' his place, an' hoo ca's JackThorme a coward, an' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Judto bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her. "

"Well, " exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, "did yo' iwer hear th' loike!"

"I wish th' owd parson had seed her, " chuckled her spouse irreverently. "That soart is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd beenking and council i' one, an' rated 'em fro' th' top round o' th' ladder. He canna get down fro' his perch. Th' owd lad'll stick theer till hegets a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an'aw'--but th' lass is a different mak'. "

Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers usually passedthrough his hands, and were condemned, or approved, by him. Hispipe, and his criticisms upon society in general, provided him withoccupation. Too old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be ignored. Where he could not make himself felt, he could make himself heard. Accordingly, when he condescended to inform a select and confidentialaudience that the "owd parson's lass was a rare un, lass as shewas"--(the masculine opinion of Riggan on the subject of the weakersex was a rather disparaging one)--the chances of the Rector's daughterbegan, so to speak, to "look up. " If Sammy Craddock found virtue inthe new-comer, it was possible such virtue might exist, at least ina negative form, --and open enmity was rendered unnecessary, and evenimpolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened. When Anice passedthrough the streets, the slatternly, baby-laden women looked at hercuriously, and in a manner not absolutely unfriendly. She might not beso bad after all, if she did have "Lunnon ways, " and was smiled upon byFortune. At any rate, she differed from the parson himself, which was inher favor. 

CHAPTER V - Outside the Hedge

Deeply as Anice was interested in Joan, she left her to herself. Shedid not go to see her, and still more wisely, she managed to hush in herfather any awakening tendency toward parochial visits. But fromGrace and Fergus Derrick she heard much of her, and through Grace shecontrived to convey work and help to Liz, and encouragement to herprotectress. From what source the assistance came, Joan did not know, and she was not prone to ask questions. 

"If she asks, tell her it is from a girl like herself, " Anice had said, and Joan had accepted the explanation. 

In a very short time from the date of their first acquaintance, FergusDerrick's position in the Barholm household had become established. Hewas the man to make friends and keep them. Mrs. Barholm grew fond ofhim; the Rector regarded him as an acquisition to their circle, andAnice was his firm friend. So, being free to come and go, he came andwent, and found his unceremonious visits pleasant enough. On his arrivalat Riggan, he had not anticipated meeting with any such opportunitiesof enjoyment He had come to do hard work, and had expected a hard life, softened by few social graces. The work of opening the new mines wasa heavy one, and was rendered additionally heavy and dangerous byunforeseen circumstances. A load of responsibility rested upon hisshoulders, to which at times he felt himself barely equal, and whichmen of less tough fibre would have been glad to shift upon others. Naturally, his daily cares made his hours of relaxation all the morepleasant Mrs. Barholm's influence upon him was a gentle and soothingone, and in Anice he found a subtle inspiration. She seemed tounderstand his trials by instinct, and even the minutiae of his workmade themselves curiously clear to her. As to the people who were underhis control, she was never tired of hearing of them, and ofstudying their quaint, rough ways. To please her he stored up many acharacteristic incident, and it was through him that she heard mostfrequently of Joan. She did not even see Joan for fully two months afterher arrival in Riggan, and then it was Joan who came to her. 

As the weather became more spring-like she was oftener out in thegarden. She found a great deal to do among the flower-beds andshrubbery, and as this had always been considered her department, shetook the management of affairs wholly into her own hands. The old place, which had been rather neglected in the time of the previous inhabitant, began to bloom out into fragrant luxuriance, and passing Rigganitesregarded it with admiring eyes. The colliers who had noticed her at thewindow in the colder weather, seeing her so frequently from a nearerpoint of view, felt themselves on more familiar terms. Some of them eventook a sort of liking to her, and gave her an uncouth greeting as theywent by; and, more than once, one or another of them had paused to askfor a flower or two, and had received them with a curious bashful awe, when they had been passed over the holly hedge. 

Having gone out one evening after dinner to gather flowers for thehouse, Anice, standing before a high lilac bush, and pulling its palepurple tassels, became suddenly conscious that some one was watchingher--some one standing upon the roadside behind the holly hedge. She didnot know that as she stopped here and there to fill her basket, shehad been singing to herself in a low tone. Her voice had attracted thepasser-by. 

This passer-by--a tall pit girl with a handsome, resolute face--stoodbehind the dark green hedge, and watched her. Perhaps to this girl, weary with her day's labor, grimed with coal-dust, it was not unlikestanding outside paradise. Early in the year as it was, there wereflowers enough in the beds, and among the shrubs, to make the spring airfresh with a faint, sweet odor. But here too was Anice in her soft whitemerino dress, with her basket of flowers, with the blue bells at herbelt, and her half audible song. She struck Joan Lowrie with a newsense of beauty and purity. As she watched her she grewdiscontented--restless--sore at heart. She could not have told why, butshe felt a certain anger against herself. She had had a hard day. Thingshad gone wrong at the pit's mouth; things had gone wrong at home. Itwas hard for her strong nature to bear with Liz's weakness. Her path wasnever smooth, but to-day it had been at its roughest. The little songfell upon her ear with strong pathos. 

"She's inside o' th' hedge, " she said to herself in a dull voice. "I'moutside, theer's th' difference. It a'most looks loike the hedge wentaw' around an' she'd been born among th' flowers, and theer's no way outfor her--no more than theer's a way in fur me. "

Then it was that Anice turned round and saw her. Their eyes met, and, singularly enough, Anice's first thought was that this was Joan. Derrick's description made her sure. There were not two such women inRiggan. She made her decision in a moment. She stepped across the grassto the hedge with a ready smile. 

"You were looking at my flowers, " she said. "Will you have some?"

Joan hesitated. 

"I often give them to people, " said Anice, taking a handful from thebasket and offering them to her across the holly. "When the men comehome from the mines they often ask me for two or three, and I think theylike them even better than I do--though that is saying a great deal. "

Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding them awkwardly, but with tenderness. 

"Oh, thank yo', " she said. "It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em away. "

"It's a pleasure to me, " said Anice, picking out a delicate pinkhyacinth. "Here's a hyacinth. " Then as Joan took it their eyes met. "Areyou Joan Lowrie?" asked the girl. 

Joan lifted her head. 

"Aye, " she answered, "I'm Joan Lowrie. "

"Ah, " said Anice, "then I am very glad. "

They stood on the same level from that moment. Something asindescribable as all else in her manner, had done for Anice just whatshe had simply and seriously desired to do. Proud and stubborn as hernature was, Joan was subdued. The girl's air and speech were like hersong. She stood inside the hedge still, in her white dress, among theflowers, looking just as much as if she had been born there as ever, butsome fine part of her had crossed the boundary. 

"Ah! then I am glad of that, " she said. 

"Yo' are very good to say as much, " she answered, "but I dunnot know asI quite understand--"

Anice drew a little nearer. 

"Mr. Grace has told me about you, " she said. "And Mr. Derrick. "

Joan's brown throat raised itself a trifle, and Anice thought colorshowed itself on her cheek. 

"Both on 'em's been good to me, " she said, "but I did na think as--"

Anice stopped her with a little gesture, "It was you who were so kind toLiz when she had no friend, " she began. 

Joan interrupted her with sudden eagerness. 

"It wur yo' as sent th' work an' th' things fur th' choild, " she said. 

"Yes, it was I, " answered Anice. "But I hardly knew what to send. I hopeI sent the right things, did I?"

"Yes, miss; thank yo'. " And then in a lower voice, "They wur a powero' help to Liz an' me. Liz wur hard beset then, an' she's only a youngthing as canna bear sore trouble. Seemed loike that th' thowt as some unhad helped her wur a comfort to her. "

Anice took courage. 

"Perhaps if I might come and see her, " she said. "May I come? I shouldlike to see the baby. I am very fond of little children. "

There was a moment's pause, and then Joan spoke awkwardly. 

"Do yo' know--happen yo' dunnot--what Liz's trouble is? Bein' as yo'reso young yorsen, happen they did na tell yo' all. Most o' toimes folk isna apt to be fond o' such loike as this little un o' hers. "

"I heard all the story. "

"Then come if yo' loike, --an' if they'll let yo', some ud think therewur harm i' th' choild's touch. I'm glad yo' dunna. "

She did not linger much longer. Anice watched her till she was out ofsight. An imposing figure she was--moving down the road in her roughmasculine garb--the massive perfection of her form clearly outlinedagainst the light. It seemed impossible that such a flower as thiscould blossom, and decay, and die out in such a life, without any higherfruition. 

"I have seen Joan Lowrie, " said Anice to Derrick, when next they met. 

"Did she come to you, or did you go to her?" Fergus asked. 

"She came to me, but without knowing that she was coming. "

"That was best, " was his comment. 

Joan Lowrie was as much a puzzle to him as she was to other people. Despite the fact that he saw her every day of his life, he had neverfound it possible to advance a step with her. She held herself alooffrom him, just as she held herself aloof from the rest. A commongreeting, and oftener than not, a silent one, was all that passedbetween them. Try as he would, he could get no farther;--and hecertainly did make some effort. Now and then he found the chance to doher a good turn, and such opportunities he never let slip, thoughhis way of doing such things was always so quiet as to be unlikely toattract any observation. Usually he made his way with people easily, butthis girl held him at a distance, almost ungraciously. And he didnot like to be beaten. Who does? So he persevered with a shade ofstubbornness, hidden under a net-work of other motives. Once, when hehad exerted himself to lighten her labor somewhat, she set aside hisassistance openly. 

"Theer's others as needs help more nor me, " she said. "Help them, an'I'll thank yo'. "

In course of time, however, he accidentally discovered that there hadbeen occasions when, notwithstanding her apparent ungraciousness, shehad exerted her influence in his behalf. 

The older colliers resented his youth, the younger ones his authority. The fact that he was "noan Lancashire" worked against him too, thougheven if he had been a Lancashire man, he would not have been likely tofind over-much favor. It was enough that he was "one o' th' mesters. " Tohave been weak of will, or vacillating of purpose, would have been deathto every vestige of the authority vested in him; but he was as strongmentally as physically--strong-willed to the verge of stubbornness. Butif they could not frighten or subdue him, they could still opposeand irritate him, and the contention was obstinate. This feeling eveninfluenced the girls and women at the "mouth. " They, too, organized inpetty rebellion, annoying if not powerful. 

"I think yo' will find as yo' may as well leave th' engineer be, " Joanwould say dryly. "Yo' will na fear him much, an' yo'll tire yo'rsens wi'yo're clatter. I donna see the good o' barkin' so much when yo' cannabite. "

"Aye, " jeered one of the boldest, once, "leave th' engineer be. Joansets a power o' store by th' engineer. "

There was a shout of laughter, but it died out when Joan confronted thespeaker with dangerous steadiness of gaze. 

"Save thy breath to cool thy porridge, " she said. "It will be better forthee. "

But it was neither the first nor the last time that her companions flungout a jeer at her "sweetheartin'. " The shrewdest among them had observedDerrick's interest in her. They concluded, of course, that Joan'shandsome face had won her a sweetheart. They could not accuse herof encouraging him; but they could profess to believe that she wassoftening, and they could use the insinuation as a sharp weapon againsther, when such a course was not too hazardous. 

Of this, Derrick knew nothing. He could only see that Joan set her facepersistently against his attempts to make friends with her, and therecognition of this fact almost exasperated him at times. It was quitenatural that, seeing so much of this handsome creature, and hearingso much of her, his admiration should not die out, and that oppositionshould rather invite him to stronger efforts to reach her. 

So it was that hearing Miss Barholm's story he fell into unconsciousreverie. Of course this did not last long. He was roused from it by thefact that Anice was looking at him. When he looked up, it seemed as ifshe awakened also, though she did not start. 

"How are you getting on at the mines?" she asked. 

"Badly. Or, at least, by no means well. The men are growing harder todeal with every day. " "And your plans about the fans?" The substitutionof the mechanical fan for the old furnace at the base of the shaft, wasone of the projects to which Derrick clung most tenaciously. During atwo years' sojourn among the Belgian mines, he had studied the systemearnestly. He had worked hard to introduce it at Riggan, and meant towork still harder. But the miners were bitterly opposed to anything"newfangled, " and the owners were careless. So that the mines wereworked, and their profits made, it did not matter for the rest. Theywere used to casualties, so well used to them in fact, that unless afearful loss of life occurred, they were not alarmed or even roused. Asto the injuries done to a man's health, and so on--they had not time toinquire into such things. There was danger in all trades, for the matterof that. Fergus Derrick was a young man, and young men were fond ofnovelties. 

Opposition was bad enough, but indifference was far more baffling. Thecolliers opposed Derrick to the utmost, the Company was rather inclinedto ignore him--some members good-naturedly, others with an air ofsuperiority, not unmixed with contempt. The colliers talked with roughill-nature; the Company did not want to talk at all. 

"Oh, " answered Derrick, "I do not see that I have made one step forward;but it will go hard with me before I am beaten. Some of the men I haveto deal with are as bat-blind as they are cantankerous. One would thinkthat experience might have taught them wisdom. Would you believe thatsome of those working in the most dangerous parts of the mine have falsekeys to their Davys, and use the flame to light their pipes? I haveheard of the thing being done before, but I only discovered the otherday that we had such madmen in the pits here. If I could only be sureof them I would settle the matter at once, but they are crafty enough tokeep their secret, and it only drifts to the master as a rumor. "

"Have you no suspicion as to who they are?" asked Anice. 

"I suspect one man, " he answered, "but only suspect him because he is abad fellow, reckless in all things, and always ready to break the rules. I suspect Dan Lowrie. "

"Joan's father?" exclaimed Anice in distress. 

Derrick made a gesture of assent. 

"He is the worst man in the mines, " he said, "The man with the worstinfluence, the man who can work best if he will, the man whose feelingagainst any authority is the strongest, and whose feeling against meamounts to bitter enmity. "

"Against you? But why?"

"I suppose because I have no liking for him myself, and because I willhave orders obeyed, whether they are my orders or the orders of theowners. I will have work done as it should be done, and I will not befrightened by bullies. "

"But if he is a dangerous man--"

"He would knock me down from behind, or spoil my beauty with vitriol ascoolly as he would toss off a pint of beer, if he had the opportunity, and chanced to feel vicious enough at the time, " said Derrick, "But hismood has not quite come to that yet. Just now he feels that he wouldlike to have a row, --and really, if we could have a row, it would bethe best thing for us both. If one of us could thrash the other at theoutset, it might never come to the vitriol. "

He was cool enough himself, and spoke in quite a matter-of-fact way, butAnice suddenly lost her color. When, later, she bade him goodnight--

"I am afraid of that man, " she said, as he held her hand for the moment. "Don't let him harm you. "

"What man?" asked Derrick. "Is it possible you are thinking about what Isaid of Lowrie?"

"Yes. It is so horrible. I cannot bear the thought of it. I am not usedto hear of such things. I am afraid for you. "

"You are very good, " he said, his strong hand returning her grasp withwarm gratitude. "But I am sorry I said so much, if I have frightenedyou. I ought to have remembered how new such things were to you. It isnothing, I assure you. " And bidding her good-night again, he went awayquite warmed at heart by her innocent interest in him, but blaminghimself not a little for his indiscretion. 

CHAPTER VI - Joan and the Child

To the young curate's great wonder, on his first visit to her after theadvent of Liz and her child, Joan changed her manner towards him. Shedid not attempt to repel him, she even bade him welcome in a way of herown. Deep in Joan's heart was hidden a fancy that perhaps the work ofthis young fellow who was "good enow fur a parson, " lay with such asLiz, and those who like Liz bore a heavy burden. 

"If yo' can do her any good, " she said, "come and welcome. Come everyday. I dunnot know much about such like mysen, but happen yo' ha' a wayo' helpin' folk as canna help theirsens i' trouble--an' Liz is one on'em. "

Truly Liz was one of these. She clung to Joan in a hopeless, childishway, as her only comfort. She could do nothing for herself, she couldonly obey Joan's dictates, and this she did in listless misery. When shehad work to do, she made weak efforts at doing it, and when she had noneshe sat and held the child upon her knee, her eyes following her friendwith a vague appeal. The discomfort of her lot, the wretchedness ofcoming back to shame and tears, after a brief season of pleasure andluxury, was what crushed her. So long as her lover had cared for her, and she had felt no fear of hunger or cold, or desertion, she had beenhappy--happy because she could be idle and take no thought for themorrow, and was almost a lady. But now all that was over. She had cometo the bitter dregs of the cup. She was thrown on her own resources, nobody cared for her, nobody helped her but Joan, nobody called herpretty and praised her ways. She was not to be a lady after all, shemust work for her living and it must be a poor one too. There would beno fine clothes, no nice rooms, no flattery and sugar-plums. Everythingwould be even far harder, and more unpleasant than it had been before. And then, the baby? What could she do with it?--a creature more helplessthan herself, always to be clothed and taken care of, when she could nottake care of herself, always in the way, always crying and wailing andtroubling day and night. She almost blamed the baby for everything. Perhaps she would not have lost her lover if it had not been for thebaby. Perhaps he knew what a trouble it would be, and wanted to be ridof her before it came, and that was why he had gone away. The night Joanhad brought her home she had taken care of the child, and told Liz tosit down and rest, and had sat down herself with the small creature inher arms, and after watching her for a while, Liz had broken out intosobs, and slipped down upon the floor at her feet, hiding her wretched, pretty face upon her friend's knee. 

"I canna abide the sight o' it, " she cried. "I canna see what it wurborn fur, mysen. I wish I'd deed when I wur i' Lunnon--when _he_ caredfur me. He wor fond enow o' me at th' first. He could na abide me to beout o' his sight. I niv-ver wur so happy i' my life as I wur then. Aye!I did na think then, as th' toime ud come when he'd cast me out i' th'road. He had no reet to do it, " her voice rising hysterically. "He hadno reet to do it, if he wur a gentleman; but it seems gentlefolk can doowt they please. If he did na mean to stick to me, why could na he ha'let me a-be. "

"That is na gentlefolks' way, " said Joan bitterly, "but if I wur i'yo're place, Liz, I would na hate th' choild. It has na done yo' as muchharm as yo' ha' done it. "

After a while, when the girl was quieter, Joan asked her a question. 

"You nivver told me who yo' went away wi', Liz, " she said. "I ha' areason fur wantin' to know, or I would na ax, but fur a' that if yo'dun-not want to tell me, yo' need na do it against yo're will. "

Liz was silent a moment. 

"I would na tell ivverybody, " she said. "I would na tell nobody but yo'. It would na do no good, an' I dunnot care to do harm. You'll keep it toyo'rsen, if I tell yo', Joan?"

"Aye, " Joan answered, "as long as it needs be kept to mysen. I am na oneto clatter. "

"Well, " said Liz with a sob, "it wur Mester Landsell I went wi'--youngMester Landsell--Mester Ralph. "

"I thout as much, " said Joan, her face darkening. 

She had had her suspicions from the first, when Mr. Ralph Landsell hadcome to Riggan with his father, who was one of the mining company. Hewas a graceful, fair-faced young fellow, with an open hand and the airof a potentate, and his grandeur had pleased Liz. She was not used toflattery and "fine London ways, " and her vanity made her an easy victim. 

"He wur allus after me, " she said, with fresh tears. "He nivver let mebe till I promised to go. He said he would make a lady o' me an' he wurallus givin' me things. He wur fond o' me at first, --that he wur, --an' Iwur fond o' him. I nivver seed no one loike him afore. Oh! it's hard, itis. --Oh! it's bitter hard an' cruel, as it should come to this. "

And she wailed and sobbed until she wore herself out, and wearied Joanto the very soul. 

But Joan bore with her and never showed impatience by word or deed. Childish petulances and plaints fell upon her like water upon arock--but now and then the strong nature was rasped beyond endurance bythe weak one. She had taken no small task upon herself when she gave Lizher word that she would shield her. Only after a while, in a few weeks, a new influence began to work upon Liz's protectress. The child for whomthere seemed no place in the world, or in any pitying heart--the childfor whom Liz felt nothing but vague dislike and resentment--the childlaid its light but powerful hand upon Joan. Once or twice she noticedas she moved about the room that the little creature's eyes would followher in a way something like its mother's, as if with appeal to hersuperior strength. She fell gradually into the habit of giving itmore attention. It was so little and light, so easily taken from Liz'scareless hold when it was restless, so easily carried to and fro, as shewent about her household tasks. She had never known much about babiesuntil chance had thrown this one in her path; it was a great novelty. It liked her strong arms, and Liz was always ready to give it up to her, feeling only a weak bewilderment at her fancy for it. When she was athome it was rarely out of her arms. It was no source of weariness to herperfect strength. She carried it here and there, she cradled it uponher knees, when she sat down by the fire to rest; she learned in timea hundred gentle woman's ways through its presence. Her step becamelighter, her voice softer--a heavy tread, or a harsh tone might wakenthe child. For the child's sake she doffed her uncouth working-dresswhen she entered the house; for the child's sake she made an effort tobrighten the dulness, and soften the roughness of their surroundings. 

The Reverend Paul, in his visits to the house, observed with tremor, the subtle changes wrought in her. Catching at the straw of her negativewelcome, he went to see Liz whenever he could find a tangible excuse. He had a sensitive dread of intruding even upon the poor privacy of the"lower orders, " and he could rarely bring himself to the point oftaking them by storm as a mere matter of ecclesiastical routine. Butthe oftener he saw Joan Lowrie, the more heavily she lay upon his mind. Every day his conscience smote him more sorely for his want of successwith her. And yet how could he make way against her indifference. Heeven felt himself a trifle spell-bound in her presence. He often foundhimself watching her as she moved to and fro, --watching her as Liz andthe child did. 

But "th' parson" was "th' parson" to her still. A good-natured, simplelittle fellow, who might be a trifle better than other folks, but whocertainly seemed weaker; a frail little gentleman in spectacles, who wasafraid of her, or was at least easily confounded; who might be of use toLiz, but who was not in her line, --better in his way than his master inhis; but still a person to be re-garded with just a touch of contempt. 

The confidence established between Grace and his friend Fergus Derrick, leading to the discussion of all matters connected with the parish andparishioners, led naturally to the frequent discussion of Joan Lowrieamong the rest. Over tea and toast in the small parlor the two men oftendrew comfort from each other. When Derrick strode into the little placeand threw himself into his favorite chair, with knit brows and wearyirritation in his air, Grace was always ready to detect his mood, andwait for him to reveal himself; or when Grace looked up at his friend'sentrance with a heavy, pained look on his face, Derrick was equallyquick to comprehend. There was one trouble in which Derrick speciallysympathized with his friend. This was in his feeling for Anice. 

Duty called Paul frequently to the house, and his position with regardto its inhabitants was necessarily familiar. Mr. Barholm did not sparehis curate; he was ready to delegate to him all labor in which he wasnot specially interested himself, or which he regarded as scarcelyworthy of his mettle. 

"Grace makes himself very useful in some cases, " he would say; "acertain kind of work suits him, and he is able to do himself justice init. He is a worthy enough young fellow in a certain groove, but it isalways best to confine him to that groove. "

So, when there was an ordinary sermon to be preached, or a commonplacepiece of work to be done, it was handed over to Grace, with a fewtolerant words of advice or comment, and as commonplace work was ratherthe rule than the exception, the Reverend Paul's life was not idle, Anice's manner toward her father's curate was so gentle and earnest, sofrank and full of trust in him, that it was not to be wondered at thateach day only fixed her more firmly in his heart Nothing of hisconscientious labor was lost upon her; nothing of his self-sacrifice andtrial was passed by indifferently in her thoughts of him; his pain andhis effort went to her very heart. Her belief in him was so strong thatshe never hesitated to carry any little bewilderment to him or to speakto him openly upon any subject. Small marvel, that he found it deliciouspain to go to the house day after day, feeling himself so near to her, yet knowing himself so far from any hope of reaching the sealed chamberof her heart. 

Notwithstanding her knowledge of her inability to alter his position, Anice still managed to exert some slight influence over her friend'sfate. 

"Do you not think, papa, that Mr. Grace has a great deal to do?" shesuggested once, when he was specially overburdened. 

"A great deal to do?" he said. "Well, he has enough to do, of course, my dear, but then it is work of a kind that suits him. I never leaveanything very important to Grace. You do not mean, my dear, that youfancy he has too much to do?"

"Rather too much of a dull kind, " answered Anice. "Dull work is tiring, and he has a great deal of it on his hands. All that school work, youknow, papa--if you could share it with him, I should think it would makeit easier for him. "

"My dear Anice, " the rector protested; "if Grace had my responsibilitiesto carry on his shoulders, --but I do not leave my responsibilities tohim. In my opinion he is hardly fitted to bear them--they are not in hisline;" but seeing a dubious look on the delicate face opposite him--"butif you think the young fellow has really too much to do, I will try totake some of these minor matters upon myself. I am equal to a good dealof hard work, "--evidently feeling himself somewhat aggrieved. 

But Anice made no further comment; having dropped a seed of suggestion, she left it to fructify, experience teaching her that this was her bestplan. It was one of the good rector's weaknesses, to dislike to findhis course disapproved even by a wholly uninfluential critic, and hisdaughter was by no means an uninfluential critic. He was never exactlycomfortable when her views did not strictly accord with his own. To findthat Anice was regarding a favorite whim with questioning, was for himto begin to falter a trifle inwardly, however testily rebellious hemight feel. He was a man who thrived under encouragement, and sank atonce before failure; failure was unpleasant, and he rarely contendedlong against unpleasantness; it was not a "fair wind and no favor" withhim, he wanted both the fair wind and the favor, and if eitherfailed him he felt himself rather badly used. So it was, through thisdiscreetly exerted influence of Anice's, that Grace, to his surprise, found some irksome tasks taken from his shoulders at this time. He didnot know that it was Anice he had to thank for the temporary relief. 

CHAPTER VII - Anice at the Cottage

ANICE went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told, she went to seeJoan more than to visit Joan's _protégée_ though her interest extendedfrom the one to the other. But she did not see Joan, she only heard ofher. Liz met her visitor without any manifestations of enthusiasm. Shewas grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat before she had been in the houseten minutes. Liz found, first, that she was not one of the enemy, and did not come to read a homily to her concerning her sins andtransgressions; having her mind set at ease thus far, she found time tobe interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her prettiness of toilet, acertain delicate grace of presence, were all virtues in Liz's eyes. Shewas so fond of pretty things herself, she had been wont to feel suchpleasure and pride in her own beauty, that such outward charms werethe strongest of charms to her. She forgot to be abashed and miserable, when, after talking a few minutes, Anice came to her and bent over thechild as it lay on her knee. She even had the courage to regard thematerial of her dress with some degree of interest. 

"Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon, " she ventured, wistfully touching thepretty silk with her finger. "Theer's noan sich i' Riggan. "

"Yes, " answered Anice, letting the baby's hand cling to her fingers. "Ibought it in London. "

Liz touched it again, and this time the wistful-ness in her touch creptup to her eyes, mingled with a little fretfulness. 

"Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon, " she said. "It's the grandestplace i' th' world. I dunnot wonder as th' queen lives theer. I wurhappy aw th' toime I wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life. I--I canna hardly bear to think on it--it gi'es me such a wearyin' an'long-in'; I wish I could go back, I do"--ending with a sob. 

"Don't think about it any more than you can help, " said Anice gently. "It is very hard I know; don't cry, Liz. "

"I canna help it, " sobbed Liz; "an' I can no more help thinkin' on it, than th' choild theer can help thinkin' on its milk. I'm hungerin'aw th' toime--an' I dunnot care to live; I wakken up i' th' noighthungerin' an' cryin' fur--fur what I ha' not got, an' nivver shall ha'agen. "

The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The sightof the silk dress had brought back to her mind her lost bit of paradiseas nothing else would have done--her own small store of finery, thegayety and novelty of London sounds and sights. 

Anice knelt down upon the flagged floor, still holding the child's hand. 

"Don't cry, " she said again. "Look at the baby, Liz. It is a prettybaby. Perhaps if it lives, it may be a comfort to you some day. "

"Nay! it wunnot;" said Liz, regarding it resentfully. "I nivver couldtak' no comfort in it. It's nowt but a trouble. I dunnot loike it. Icanna. It would be better if it would na live. I canna tell wheer JoanLowrie gets her patience fro'. I ha' no patience with the little marredthing mysen--allus whimperin' an' cry in'; I dunnot know what to do wi'it half th' toime. "

Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down upon a low wooden stool, held it gently, looking at its small round face. It was a pretty littlecreature, pretty with Liz's own beauty, or at least, with the babypromise of it. Anice stooped and kissed it, her heart stirred by thefeebly-strong clasp of the tiny fingers. 

During the remainder of her visit, she sat holding the child on herknee, and talking to it as well as to its mother. But she made noattempt to bring Liz to what Mr. Barholm had called, "a fitting senseof her condition. " She was not fully settled in her opinion as to whatLiz's "fitting sense" would be. So she simply made an effort to pleaseher, and awaken her to interest, and she succeeded very well. When shewent away, the girl was evidently sorry to see her go. 

"I dunnot often want to see folk twice, " she said, looking at her shyly, "but I'd loike to see yo'. Yo're not loike th' rest. Yo' dunnot harry mewi' talk. Joan said yo' would na. "

"I will come again, " said Anice. 

During her visit, Liz had told her much of Joan. She seemed to like totalk of her, and certainly Anice had been quite ready to listen. 

"She is na easy to mak' out, " said Liz, "an' p'r'aps that's th' reasonwhy folks puts theirsens to so much trouble to mak' her out. "

When he passed the cottage on the Knoll Road in going home at night, Fergus could not help looking out for Joan. Sometimes he saw her, andsometimes he did not. During the warm weather, he saw her often at thedoor, or near the gate; almost always with the child in her arms. Therewas no awkward shrinking in her manner at such times, no vestige of theclumsy consciousness usually exhibited by girls of her class. She methis glance with a grave quietude, scarcely touched with interest, hethought; he never observed that she smiled, though he was uncomfortablyconscious now and then that she stood and calmly watched him out ofsight. 

CHAPTER VIII - The Wager of Battle

"Owd Sammy Craddock" rose from his chair, and going to the mantel-piece, took down a tobacco jar of red and yellow delft, and proceeded to fillhis pipe with solemn ceremony. It was a large, deep clay pipe, and helda great deal of tobacco--particularly when filled from the store of anacquaintance. "It's a good enow pipe to borrow wi', " Sammy was wont toremark. In the second place, Mr. Craddock drew forth a goodly portionof the weed, and pressed it down with ease and precision into the topof the foreign gentleman's turban which constituted the bowl. Then helighted it with a piece of paper, remarking to his wife between longindrawn puffs, "I'm goin'--to th' Public. "

The good woman did not receive the intelligence as amicably as it hadbeen given. 

"Aye, " she said, "I'll warrant tha art. When tha art no fillin' thybelly tha art generally either goin' to th' Public, or comin' whoam. AwRig-gan ud go to ruin if tha wert na at th' Public fro' morn till neetlooking after other folkses business. It's well for th' toun as tha'stgetten nowt else to do. "

Sammy puffed away at his pipe, without any appearance of disturbance. 

"Aye, " he consented dryly, "it is, that. It ud be a bad thing to ha'th' pits stop workin' aw because I had na attended to 'em, an' gi'en th'mes-ters a bit o' encouragement. Tha sees mine's what th' gentlefolkca' a responsible position i' society. Th' biggest trouble I ha', issettlin' i' my moind what th' world 'ill do when I turn up my toes toth' daisies, an' how the government'll mak' up their moinds who shallha' th' honor o' payin' for th' moniment. "

In Mr. Craddock's opinion, his skill in the solution of political andsocial problems was only equalled by his aptitude in managing the weakersex. He never lost his temper with a woman. He might be sarcastic, hewas sometimes even severe in his retorts, but he was never violent. Inany one else but Mr. Craddock, such conduct might have been consideredweak by the male population of Riggan, who not unfrequently settledtheir trifling domestic difficulties with the poker and tongues, chairs, or flat-irons, or indeed with any portable piece of household furniture. But Mr. Craddock's way of disposing of feminine antagonists wastolerated. It was pretty well known that Mrs. Craddock had a temper, and since he could manage her, it was not worth while to criticise themethod. 

"Tha'rt an owd yommer-head, " said Mrs. Crad-dock, as oracularly as ifshe had never made the observation before. "Tha deserves what tha has nagetten. "

"Aye, that I do, " with an air of amiable regret "Tha'rt reet theer furonce i' thy loife. Th' country has na done its duty by me. If I'd had awI deserved I'd been th' Lord Mayor o' Lunnon by this toime, an' tha'd abeen th' Lady May-oress, settin' up i' thy parlor wi' a goold crown atopo' thy owd head, sortin' out thy cloathes fur th' wesh woman i'stead o'dollyin' out thy bits o' duds fur thysen. Tha'rt reet, owd lass--tha'rtreet enow. "

"Go thy ways to th' Public, " retorted the old dame driven todesperation. "I'm tired o' heark-enin' to thee. Get thee gone to th'Public, or we'st ha' th' world standin' still; an' moind tha do'st naset th' horse-ponds afire as tha goes by em. 

"I'll be keerful, owd lass, " chuckled Sammy, taking his stick. "I'll bekeerful for th' sake o' th' town. "

He made his way toward the village ale-house in the best of humors. Arriving at The Crown, he found a discussion in progress. Discussionswere always being carried on there in fact, but this time it was notCraddock's particular friends who were busy. There were grades evenamong the visitors at The Crown, and there were several grades belowSammy's. The lowest was composed of the most disreputable of thecolliers--men who with Lowrie at their head were generally in somemischief. It was these men who were talking together loudly thisevening, and as usual, Lowrie was the loudest in the party. They didnot seem to be quarrelling. Three or four sat round a table listening toLowrie with black looks, and toward them Sammy glanced as he came in. 

"What's up in them fellys?" he asked of a friend. 

"Summat's wrong at th' pit, " was the answer. "I canna mak' out whatmysen. Summat about one o' th' mesters as they're out wi'. What'll thatak', owdlad?"

"A pint o' sixpenny. " And then with another sidelong glance at thedebaters:

"They're an ill set, that lot, an' up to summat ill too, I'll warrant. He's not the reet soart, that Lowrie. "

Lowrie was a burly fellow with a surly, sometimes ferocious, expression. Drink made a madman of him, and among his companions he ruled supremethrough sheer physical superiority. The man who quarrelled with himmight be sure of broken bones, if not of something worse. He leaned overthe table now, scowling as he spoke. 

"I'll ha' no lads meddlin' an' settin' th' mesters agen _me_, " Craddockheard him say. "Them on yo' as loikes to tak' cheek mun tak' it, I'm tooowd a bird fur that soart o' feed. It sticks i' my crop. Look thee outo' that theer window, Jock, and watch who passes. I'll punse that ladinto th' middle o' next week, as sure as he goes by. "

"Well, " commented one of his companions, "aw I've gotten to say is, astha'll be loike to ha' a punse on it, fur he's a strappin' youngster, an' noan so easy feart. "

"Da'st ta mean to say as I conna do it?" demanded Lowrie fiercely. 

"Nay--nay, mon, " was the pacific and rather hasty reply. "Nowt o' th'soart. I on'y meant as it was na ivvery mon as could. "

"Aye, to be sure!" said Sammy testily to his friend. "That's th' game isit? Theer's a feight on hond. That's reet, my lads, lay in thy beer, an' mak' dom'd fools o' thysens, an' tha'lt get a chance to sleep on th'soft side o' a paving-stone i' th' lock-ups. "

He had been a fighting man himself in his young days, and had pridedhimself particularly upon "showing his muscle, " in Riggan parlance, buthe had never been such a man as Lowrie. His comparatively gentlemanlyencounters with personal friends had always been fair and square, andin many cases had laid the foundation for future toleration, evenamiability. He had never hesitated to "tak' a punse" at an offendingindividual, but he had always been equally ready to shake hands whenall was over, and in some cases, when having temporarily closed acompanion's eyes in the heat of an argument, he had been known to leadhim to the counter of "th' Public, " and bestow nectar upon him in theform of "sixpenny. " But of Lowrie, even the fighting community, whichwas the community predominating in Riggan, could not speak so well. Hewas "ill-farrant, " and revengeful, --ready to fight, but not ready toforgive. He had been known to bear a grudge, and remember it, when ithad been forgotten by other people. His record was not a clean one, andaccordingly he was not a favorite of Sammy Craddock's. 

A short time afterward somebody passed the window facing the street, andLowrie started up with an oath. 

"Theer he is!" he exclaimed. "Now fur it. I thowt he'd go this road. I'll see what tha's getten to say fur thysen, my lad. "

He was out in the street almost before Crad-dock and his companion hadtime to reach the open window, and he had stopped the passer-by, whopaused to confront him haughtily. 

"Why!" cried Sammy, slapping his knee, "I'm dom'd if it is na th' Lunnonengineer chap. "

Fergus Derrick stood before his enemy with anything but a propitiatoryair. That this brutal fellow who had caused him trouble enough already, should interfere with his very progress in the street, was too much forhis high spirit to bear. 

"I comn out here, " said Lowrie, "to see if tha had owt to say to me. "

"Then, " replied Fergus, "you may go in again, for I have nothing. "

Lowrie drew a step nearer to him. 

"Art tha sure o' that?" he demanded. "Tha wert so ready wi' thy gababout th' Davys this mornin' I thowt happen tha'd loike to say sum-matmore if a mon ud gi' yo' a chance. But happen agen yo're one o' th'soart as sticks to gab an' goes no further. "

Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a contemptuousgesture. 

"Out of the way, " he said, in a suppressed voice, "and let me pass. "

But Lowrie only came nearer. 

"Nay, but I wunnot, " he said, "until I've said my say. Tha wert goin' tomak' me obey th' rules or let th' mesters hear on it, wert tha? Tha wertgoin' to keep thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, werttha? Well, th' toime has na come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' thee athrashin'. "

He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would have flung to the earthany man who had not possessed the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrickmanaged to preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could notcontrol himself. Naturally, he had longed to thrash this fellowsoundly often enough, and now that he had been attacked by him, hefelt forbearance to be no virtue. Brute force could best conquer brutenature. He felt that he would rather die a thousand deaths than beconquered himself. He put forth all his strength in an effort thatawakened the crowd--which had speedily surrounded them, Owd Sammy amongthe number--to wild admiration. 

"Get thee unto it, lad, " cried the old sinner in an ecstasy ofapprobation, "Get thee unto it! Tha'rt shapin' reet I see. Why, I'mdom'd, " slapping his knee as usual--"I'm dom'd if he is na goin' tomill Dan Lowrie!"

To the amazement of the by-standers, it became evident in a very shorttime, that Lowrie had met his match. Finding it necessary to defendhimself, Derrick was going to do something more. The result was thatthe breathless struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie layupon the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him pale, fierce andpanting. 

"Look to him, " he said to the men about him, in a white heat, "andremember that the fellow provoked me to it. If he tries it again, I willtry again too. " And he turned on his heel and walked away. 

He had been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than most men wouldhave been, but he had disposed of his enemy effectually. The fellowlay stunned upon the ground. In his fall, he had cut his head upon thecurbstone, and the blood streamed from the wound when his companionscrowded near, and raised him. Owd Sammy Craddock offered no assistance;he leaned upon his stick, and looked on with grim satisfaction. 

"Tha's getten what tha deserved, owd lad, " he said in an undertone. "An'tha'st getten no more. I'st owe th' Lunnon chap one fro' this on. He'sdone a bit o' work as I'd ha' takken i' hond mysen long ago, if I'd ha'been thirty years younger, an' a bit less stiff i' th' hinges. "

Fergus had not escaped without hurt himself, and the first angryexcitement over, he began to feel so sharp an ache in his wrist, thathe made up his mind to rest for a few minutes at Grace's lodgings beforegoing home. It would be wise to know the extent of his injury. 

Accordingly, he made his appearance in the parlor, somewhat startlinghis friend, who was at supper. 

"My dear Fergus!" exclaimed Paul. "How excited you look!"

Derrick flung himself into a chair, feeling rather dubious about hisstrength, all at once. 

"Do I?" he said, with a faint smile. "Don't be alarmed, Grace, I have nodoubt I look as I feel. I have been having a brush with that scoundrelLowrie, and I believe something has happened to my wrist. "

He made an effort to raise his left hand and failed, succumbing to apain so intense that it forced an exclamation from him. 

"I thought it was a sprain, " he said, when he recovered himself, "but itis a job for a surgeon. It is broken. "

And so it proved under the examination of the nearest practitioner, andthen Derrick remembered a wrench and shock which he had felt in Lowrie'slast desperate effort to recover himself. Some of the small bones hadbroken. 

Grace called in the surgeon himself, and stood by during the strappingand bandaging with an anxious face, really suffering as much as Derrick, perhaps a trifle more. He would not hear of his going home that night, but insisted that he should remain where he was. 

"I can sleep on the lounge myself, " he protested. "And though I shall beobliged to leave you for half an hour, I assure you I shall not be awaya longer time. "

"Where are you going?" asked Derrick. 

"To the Rectory. Mr. Barholm sent a mes-sage an hour ago, that he wishedto see me upon business. "

Fergus agreed to remain. When Grace was on the point of leaving theroom, he turned his head. 

"You are going to the Rectory, you say?" he remarked. 

"Yes. "

"Do you think you shall see Anice?"

"It is very probable, " confusedly. 

"I merely thought I would ask you not to mention this affair to her, "said Derrick. The Curate's face assumed an expression at that moment, which it was well that his friend did not see. A shadow of bewildermentand anxiety fell upon it and the color faded away. 

"You think--" faltered he. 

"Well, I thought that perhaps it would shock or alarm her, " answeredDerrick. "She might fancy it to have been a more serious matter than itwas. "

"Very well. I think you are right, perhaps. "

CHAPTER IX - The News at the Rectory

If she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it fromanother quarter. 

The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of "th'feight betwix' th' Lunnon chap an' Dan Lowrie. "

Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned toluncheon in a state of great excitement. 

"Dear me!" he began, almost as soon as he entered the room. "Bless mylife! what ill-conditioned animals these colliers are!"

Anice and her mother regarded him questionably. 

"What do you suppose I have just heard?" he went on. "Mr. Derrick hashad a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under him--noother than that Lowrie--the young woman's father. They are a bad lot itseems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked him openly, and in the most brutal manner, as he was going through the villageyesterday evening. "

"Are you sure?" cried Anice. "Oh! papa, " and she put her hand upon thetable as if she needed support. 

"There is not the slightest doubt, " was the answer, "everybody istalking about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules ofthe mine that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they arein the pit--indeed they are directed to deliver up their keys beforegoing down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie hadprocured a false key, gave him a rather severe rating about it, andthreatened to report him, and the end of the matter was the trouble ofyesterday. The wonder is, that Derrick came off conqueror. They say hegave the fellow a sound thrashing. There is a good deal of force in thatyoung man, " he said, rubbing his hands. "There is a good deal of--ofpluck in him--as we used to say at Oxford. "

Anice shrank from her father's evident enjoyment, feeling a mixtureof discomfort and dread. Suppose the tables had turned the other way. Suppose it had been Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of horriblethings done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie would not havepaused where Derrick did. The newspapers told direful tales of suchstruggles ending in the conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten outof life. 

"It is very strange, " she said, almost impatiently. "Mr. Grace must haveknown, and yet he said nothing. I wish he would come. "

As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, and the Curatewas announced. He was obliged to drop in at all sorts of unceremonioushours, and to-day some school business had brought him. The Rectorturned to greet him with unwonted warmth. "The very man we want, " heexclaimed. "Anice was just wishing for you. We have been talking of thisdifficulty between Derrick and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear whatyou know about it. "

Grace glanced at Anice uneasily. 

"We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite uninjured, " she said. "Papadid not hear that he was hurt at all, but you will be able to tell us. "

There was an expression in her upraised eyes the Curate had never seenthere. 

"He met with an injury, " he answered, "but it was not a severe one. He came to my rooms last night and remained with me. His wrist isfractured. "

He was not desirous of discussing the subject very freely, it wasevident, even to Mr. Barholm, who was making an effort to draw him out. He seemed rather to avoid it, after he had made a brief statement ofwhat he knew. In his secret heart, he shrank from it with a dread farmore nervous than Anice's. He had doubts of his own concerning Lowrie'saction in the future. Thus the Rector's excellent spirits grated on him, and he said but little. 

Anice was silent too. After luncheon, however, she went into a smallconservatory adjoining the room, and before Grace took his departure, she called him to her. 

"It is very strange that you did not tell us last night, " she said; "whydid you not?"

"It was Derrick's forethought for you, " he answered. "He was afraid thatthe story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him that it might, Iremained silent. I might as well have spoken, it appears. "

"He thought it would frighten me?" she said. 

"Yes. "

"Has this accident made him ill?"

"No, not ill, though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenientone. "

"I am very sorry; please tell him so. And, Mr. Grace, when he feels ableto come here, I have something to say to him. "

Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm insplints and bandages. 

It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him; Mrs. Barholm'sgentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a sonof her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strongand deep as was her affection for her girl. 

But it was not till Derrick bade Anice good-night, that he heard whatshe intended to say to him. When he was going, just as he stepped acrossthe threshold of the entrance door, she stopped him. 

"Wait a minute, if you will be so good, " she said, "I have something toask of you. "

He paused, half smiling. 

"I thought you had forgotten, " he returned. 

"Oh! no, I had not forgotten, " she answered. "But it will only seem avery slight thing to you perhaps. " Then she began again, after a pause. "If you please, do not think I am a coward, " she said. 

"A coward!" he repeated. 

"You were afraid to let Mr. Grace tell me about your accident last nightand though it was very kind of you, I did not like it. You must notthink that because these things are new and shock me, I am not strongenough to trust in. I am stronger than I look. "

"My dear Miss Barholm, " he protested, "I am sure of that. I ought tohave known better. Forgive me if--"

"Oh, " she interposed, "you must not blame yourself. But I wanted to askyou to be so kind as to think better of me than that. I want to be surethat if ever I can be of use to anybody, you will not stop to think ofthe danger or annoyance. Such a time may never come, but if it does--"

"I shall certainly remember what you have said, " Fergus ended for her. 

CHAPTER X - On the Knoll Road

The moon was shining brightly when he stepped into the open road--sobrightly that he could see every object far before him unless where thetrees cast their black shadows, which seemed all the blacker for thelight. "What a grave little creature she is!" he was saying to himself. But he stopped suddenly; under one of the trees by the roadside some onewas standing motionless; as he approached, the figure stepped boldly outinto the moonlight before him. It was a woman. 

"Dunnot be afeard, " she said, in a low, hurried voice. "It's me, mester--it's Joan Lowrie. "

"Joan Lowrie!" he said with surprise. "What has brought you out at thishour, and whom are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for yo'rsen, " she answered. 

"For me?"

"Aye; I ha' summat to say to you. "

She looked about her hurriedly. 

"Yo'd better come into th' shade o' them trees, " she said, "I dunnotwant to gi' any one a chance to see me nor yo' either. "

It was impossible that he should not hesitate a moment. If she had beenforced into entrapping him!

She made a sharp gesture. 

"I am na goin' to do no harm, " she said. "Yo' may trust me. It's th'other way about. "

"I ask pardon, " he said, feeling heartily ashamed of himself the nextinstant, "but you know--"

"Aye, " impatiently, as they passed into the shadow, "I know, or I shouldna be here now. "

A moonbeam, finding its way through a rift in the boughs and falling onher face, showed him that she was very pale. 

"Yo' wonder as I'm here at aw, " she said, not meeting his eyes as shespoke, "but yo' did me a good turn onct, an' I ha' na had so many doneme i' my loife as I can forget one on 'em. I'm come here--fur I may aswell mak' as few words on't as I con--I come here to tell yo' to tak'heed o' Dan Lowrie. "

"What?" said Fergus. "He bears me a grudge, does he?"

"Aye, he bears thee grudge enow, " she said. "He bears thee that muchgrudge that if he could lay his hond on thee, while th' heat's on him, he'd kill thee or dee. He will na be so bitter after a while, happen, but he'd do it now, and that's why I warn thee. Tha has no reet to begoin' out loike this, " glancing at his bandaged arm. "How could thahelp thysen if he were to set on thee? Tha had better tak' heed, I tellthee. "

"I am very much indebted to you, " began Fergus. 

She stopped him. 

"Tha did me a good turn, " she said. And then her voice changed. "DanLowrie's my feyther, an' I've stuck to him, I dunnot know why--happencause I never had nowt else to hold to and do for; but feyther or nofeyther I know he's a bad un when th' fit's on an' he has a spite agen amon. So tak' care, I tell thee agen. Theer now, I've done. Will tha walkon first an' let me follow thee?"

Something in her mode of making this suggestion impressed himsingularly. 

"I do not quite understand--" he said. 

She turned and looked at him, her face white and resolute. 

"I dunnot want harm done, " she answered. "I will na ha' harm done ifI con help it, an' if I mun speak th' truth I know theer's harm afootto-neet. If I'm behind thee, theer is na a mon i' Riggan as dare layhond on thee to my face, if I _am_ nowt but a lass. That's why I ax theeto let me keep i' soight. "

"You are a brave woman, " he said, "and I will do as you tell me, but Ifeel like a coward. "

"Theer is no need as you should, " she answered in a softened voice, "Yo'dunnot seem loike one to me. "

Derrick bent suddenly, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. Atthis involuntary act of homage--for it was nothing less--Joan Lowrielooked up at him with startled eyes. 

"I am na a lady, " she said, and drew her hand away. 

They went out into the road together, he first, she following at a shortdistance, so that nobody seeing the one could avoid seeing the other. Itwas an awkward and trying position for a man of Derrick's temperament, and under some circumstances he would have rebelled against it; as itwas, he could not feel humiliated. 

At a certain dark bead in the road not far from Lowrie's cottage, Joanhalted suddenly and spoke. 

"Feyther, " she said, in a clear steady voice, "is na that yo' standin'theer? I thowt yo'd happen to be comin' whoam this way. Wheer has thabeen?" And as he passed on, Derrick caught the sound of a muttered oath, and gained a side glimpse of a heavy, slouching figure coming stealthilyout of the shadow. 

CHAPTER XI - Nib and His Master Make a Call

"Hoo's a queer little wench, " said one of the roughest Rigganitematrons, after Anice's first visit, "I wur i' th' middle o' my weshinwhen she coom, --up to th' neck i' th' suds, --and I wur vexed enow whenI seed her standin' i' th' door, lookin' at me wi' them big eyes o'hers--most loike a babby's wonderin' at summat. 'We dun-not want none, 'I says, soart o' sharp loike, th' minute I clapped my eyes on her. 'Theer's no one here as can read, an' none on us has no toime to spareif we could, so we dunnot want none. ' 'Dunnot want no what?' she says. 'No tracks, ' says I. And what do yo' think she does, lasses? Why, shebegins to soart o' dimple up about th' corners o' her mouth as if I'dsaid summat reight down queer, an' she gi'es a bit o' a laff. 'Well, 'she says, 'I'm glad o' that. It's a good thing, fur I hav'n't gotnone. ' An' then it turns out that she just stopped fur nowt but to leavesome owd linen an' salve for to dress that sore hond Jack crushed i' th'pit. He'd towd her about it as he went to his work, and she promised tobring him some. An' what's more, she wouldna coom in, but just gi' itme, an' went her ways, as if she had na been th' Parson's lass at aw, but just one o' th' common koind, as knowd how to moind her own businessan' leave other folkses a-be. "

The Rigganites became quite accustomed to the sight of Anice's small lowphaeton, with its comfortable fat gray pony. She was a pleasant sightherself as she sat in it, her little whip in her small gloved hand, andno one was ever sorry to see her check the gray pony before the door. 

"Anice!" said Mr. Barholm to his curate, "well! you see Aniceunderstands these people, and they understand her. She has the facultyof understanding them. There is nothing, you may be assured, Grace, likeunderstanding the lower orders, and entering into their feelings. "

There was one member of Riggan society who had ranged himself among MissBarholm's disciples from the date of his first acquaintance with her, who was her staunch friend and adviser from that time forward--theyoung master of "th' best tarrier i' Riggan. " Neither Jud Bates norNib faltered in their joint devotions from the hour of their firstintroduction to "th' Parson's daughter. " When they presented themselvesat the Rectory together, the cordiality of Nib's reception had lessenedhis master's awkwardness. Nib was neither awkward nor one whit abashedupon his entrée into a sphere so entirely new to him as a well-ordered, handsomely furnished house. Once inside the parlor, Jud had lost courageand stood fumbling his ragged cap, but Nib had bounced forward, in thebest of good spirits, barking in friendly recognition of Miss Barholm'sgreeting caress, and licking her hand. Through Nib, Anice contrivedto inveigle Jud into conversation and make him forget his overwhelmingconfusion. Catching her first glimpse of the lad as he stood upon thethreshold with his dubious garments and his abashed air, she wasnot quite decided what she was to do with him. But Nib came to herassistance. He forced himself upon her attention and gave her somethingto say, and her manner of receiving him was such, that in a few minutesshe found Jud sidling toward her, as she half knelt on the hearthpatting his favorite's rough back. Jud looked down at her, and shelooked up at Jud. 

"Have you taught him to do anything?" she asked. "Does he know anytricks?"

"He'll kill more rats i' ten minutes than ony dog i' Riggan. He's th'best tarrier fur rats as tha ivver seed. He's th' best tarrier for _owt_as tha ivver seed. Theer is nowt as he canna do. He con feight ony dogas theer is fro' heer to Marfort. " And he glowed in all the pride ofpossession, and stooped down to pat Nib himself. 

He was quite communicative after this. He was a shrewd little fellow andhad not spent his ten years in the mining districts for nothing. Hewas thoroughly conversant with the ways of the people his young hostesswished to hear about. He had worked in the pits a little, and he hadtramped about the country with Nib at his heels a great deal. He wassupposed to live with his father and grandmother, but he was leftentirely to himself, unless when he was put to a chance job. He knewJoan Lowrie and pronounced her a "brave un;" he knew and reverenced "OwdSammy Craddock;" he knew Joan's father and evidently regarded him withdistrust; in fact there was not a man, woman or child in the place ofwhom he did not know something. 

Mr. Barholm happening to enter the room during the interview, found hisdaughter seated on a low seat with Nib's head on her knee, and Jud a fewfeet from her. She was so intent on the task of entertaining her guestthat she did not hear her father's entrance, and the Reverend Haroldleft the three together, himself in rather a bewildered frame of mind. 

"Do you know?" he asked of his wife when he found her, "do you know whoit is Anice is amusing in the parlor? What singular fancies the girlhas, with all her good sense!"

CHAPTER XII - On Guard

Though they saw comparatively little of each other, the friendly feelingestablished between Anice and Joan, in their first interview, gainedstrength gradually as time went on. Coming home from her work at noon orat night, Joan would see traces of Anice's presence, and listen to Liz'spraises of her. Liz was fond of her and found comfort in her. The dayswhen the gray pony came to a stop in his jog-trot on the roadside beforethe gate had a kind of pleasurable excitement in them. They were thesole spice of her life. She understood Anice as little as she understoodJoan, but she liked her. She had a vague fancy that in some way Anicewas like Joan; that there was the same strength in her, --a strengthupon which she herself might depend. And then she found even a strongerattraction in her visitor's personal adornments, in her graceful dress, in any elegant trifle she wore. She liked to look at her clothes and askquestions about them, and wonder how _she_ would look if she were thepossessor of such beautiful things. 

"She wur loike a pictur, " she would say mournfully to Joan. "She had ablue gown on, an' a hat wi' blue-bells in it, an' summat white an' softfrilled up round her neck. Eh! it wur pretty. I wish I wur a lady. Idunnot see why ivverybody canna be a lady an' have such loike. "

Later Joan got up and went to the child, who lay upon the bed in acorner of the room. 

There were thoughts at work within her of which Liz knew nothing. Lizonly looked at her wondering as she took the sleeping baby in her arms, and began to pace the floor, walking to and fro with a slow step. 

"Have I said owt to vex yo'?" said Liz. 

"No, lass, " was the answer, "it is na thee as worrits me. I con scarcetell what it is mysen, but it is na thee, nivver fear. "

But there was a shadow upon her all the rest of the night. She did notlay the child down again, but carried it in her arms until they went tobed, and even there it lay upon her breast. 

"It's queer to me as yo' should be so fond o' that choild, Joan, " saidLiz, standing by the side of the bed. 

Joan raised her head from the pillow and looked down at the small faceresting upon her bosom, and she touched the baby's cheek lightly withher finger, flushing curiously. 

"It's queer to me too, " she answered, "Get thee into bed, Liz. "

Many a battle was fought upon that homely couch when Liz was slumberingquietly, and the child's soft regular breathing was the only sound tobe heard in the darkened room. Amid the sordid cares and humiliationsof Joan's rough life, there had arisen new ones. She had secretstruggles--secret yearnings, --and added to these, a secret terror. Whenshe lay awake thinking, she was listening for her father's step. Therewas not a night in which she did not long for, and dread to hear it. If he stayed out all night, she went down to her work under a load offoreboding. She feared to look into the faces of her work-fellows, lestthey should have some evil story to tell, she feared the road over whichshe had to pass, lest at some point, its very dust should cry out toher in a dark stain. She knew her father better than the oldest of hiscompanions, and she watched him closely. 

"He's what yo' wenches ud ca' a handsum chap, that theer, " said Lowrieto her, the night of his encounter with Derrick. "He's a tall chap an'a strappin' chap an' he's getten a good-lookin' mug o' his own, but, "clenching his fist slowly and speaking, "I've not done wi' him yet--Ihas not quite done wi' him. Wait till I ha', an' then see what yo'llsay about his beauty. Look yo' here, lass, "--more slowly and heavilystill, --"he'll noan be so tall then nor yet so straight an' strappin'. I'll smash his good-lookin' mug if I'm dom'd to hell fur it. Heed thathat?"

Instead of taking lodgings nearer the town or avoiding the Knoll Road, as Grace advised him to do when he heard of Joan's warning, Derrickprovided himself with a heavy stick, stuck a pistol into his belt everynight when he left his office, and walked home as usual, keeping a sharplookout, however. 

"If I avoid the fellow, " he said to Grace, "he will suspect at once thatI feel I have cause to fear him; and if I give him grounds for such abelief as that I might as well have given way at first. "

Strange to say he was not molested. The excitement seemed to die anatural death in the course of a few days. Lowrie came back to his worklooking sullen and hard, but he made no open threats, and he even seemedeasier to manage. Certainly Derrick found his companions more respectfuland submissive. There was less grumbling among them and more passiveobedience. The rules were not broken, openly, at least, and he himselfwas not defied. It was not pleasant to feel that what reason andcivility could not do, a tussle had accomplished, but this really seemedto be the truth of the matter, and the result was one which made hisresponsibilities easier to bear. 

But during his lonely walks homeward on these summer nights, Derrickmade a curious discovery. On one or two occasions he became consciousthat he had a companion who seemed to act as his escort. It was usuallyupon dark or unpleasant nights that he observed this, and the first timehe caught sight of the figure which always walked on the opposite sideof the road, either some distance before or behind him, he put his handto his belt, not perceiving for some moments that it was not a man buta woman. It _was_ a woman's figure, and the knowledge sent the blood tohis heart with a rush that quickened its beatings. It might have beenchance, he argued, that took her home that night at this particulartime; but when time after time, the same thing occurred, he saw thathis argument had lost its plausibility. It was no accident, there waspurpose in it; and though they never spoke to each other or in anymanner acknowledged each other's presence, and though often he fanciedthat she convinced herself that he was not aware of her motive, he knewthat Joan's desire to protect him had brought her there. 

He did not speak of this even to Grace. 

One afternoon in making her visit at the cottage, Anice left a messagefor Joan. She had brought a little plant-pot holding a tiny rose-bush infull bloom, and when she went away she left her message with Liz. 

"I never see your friend when I am here, " she said, "will you ask her tocome and see _me_ some night when she is not too tired?"

When Joan came home from her work, the first thing that caught hereye was a lovely bit of color, --the little rose-bush blooming on thewindow-sill where Anice herself had placed it. 

She went and stood before it, and when Liz, who had been temporarilyabsent, came into the room, she was standing before it still. 

"_She_ browt it, " explained Liz, "she wur here this afternoon. "

"Aye, " she answered, "wur she?"

"Aye, " said Liz. "An', Joan, what do yo' think she towd me to tell yo'?"

Joan shook her head. 

"Why, she said I were to tell yo' to go and see her some neet when yo'wur na tired, --just th' same as if yo' wur a lady. Shanna yo' go?"

"I dunnot know, " said Joan awakening, "I canna tell. What does she wanto' me?"

"She wants to see thee an' talk to thee, that's what, "--answeredLiz, --"just th' same as if tha was a lady, I tell thee. That's her wayo' doin' things. She is na a bit loike the rest o' gentlefolk. Why, she'll sit theer on that three-legged stool wi' the choild on her kneean' laff an' talk to me an' it, as if she wur nowt but a common lass an'noan a lady at aw. She's ta'en a great fancy to thee, Joan. She's allusaxin me about thee. If I wur thee I'd go. Happen she'd gi' thee some o'her owd cloas as she's ta'en to thee so. "

"I dunnot want no owd cloas, " said Joan brusquely, "an' she's noan sodaft as to offer 'em to me. "

"Well, I nivver did!" exclaimed Liz. "Would na tha tak' 'em? Tha nivvermeans to say, tha would na tak' 'em, Joan? Eh! tha art a queer wench!Why, I'd be set up for th' rest o' my days, if she'd offer 'em to me. "

"Thy ways an' mine is na loike, " said Joan. "I want no gentlefolks'finery. An' I tell you she would na offer 'em to me. "

"I nivver con mak' thee out, " Liz said, in a fret. "Tha'rt as grand asif tha wur a lady thy-sen. Tha'lt tak' nowt fro' nobody. "

"Wheer's th' choild?" asked Joan. 

"She's laid on th' bed, " said Liz. "She wur so heavy she tired me an' Igave her a rose-bud to play wi' an' left her. She has na cried sin'. Eh!but these is a noice color, " bending her pretty, large-eyed face overthe flowers, and inhaling their perfume; "I wish I had a bit o' ribbonloike 'em. "

CHAPTER XIII - Joan and the Picture

Notwithstanding Anice's interference in his behalf, Paul did not findhis labors become very much lighter. And then after all his labor, theprospect before him was not promising. Instead of appearing easier tocope with as he learned more of it and its inhabitants, Riggan seemedstill more baffling. His "district" lay in the lower end of the townamong ugly back streets, and alleys; among dirt and ignorance andobstinacy. He spent his days in laboring among people upon whom hesometimes fancied he had obtained no hold. It really seemed that theydid not want him--these people; and occasionally a more distressingview of the case presented itself to his troubled mind, --namely, that tothose who might chance to want him he had little to offer. 

He had his temporal thorn too. He found it difficult to read, hard tofix his mind on his modest sermons; occasionally he even accused himselfof forgetting his duty. This had come since the night when he stood atthe door and listened to his friend's warning concerning the Rector'sdaughter. Derrick's words were simple enough in themselves, but they hadfallen upon the young Curate's ears with startling significance. He hadgiven this significance to them himself, --in spite of himself, --andthen all at once he had fallen to wondering why it was that he had neverthought of such a possible denouement before. It was so very possible, so very probable; nay, when he came to think of it seriously, it wasonly impossible that it should not be. He had often told him-self, thatsome day a lover would come who would be worthy of the woman he had noteven hoped to win. And who was more worthy than Fergus Derrick--who wasmore like the hero to whom such women surrender their hearts and lives. If he himself had been such a man, he thought with the simplicity ofaffection, he would not have felt that there was need for fear. And thetwo had been thrown so much together and would be thrown together sofrequently in the future. He remembered how Fergus had been taken intothe family circle, and calling to mind a hundred trifling incidents, smiled at his own blindness. When the next day he received Anice'smessage, he received it as an almost positive confirmation. It was notlike her to bestow favors from an idle impulse. 

It was not so easy now to meet the girl in his visits to the Rectory: itwas not easy to listen to Mr. Barholm while Anice and Fergus Derricksat apart and talked. Sometimes he wondered if the time could ever come, when his friend would be less his friend because he had rivalled him. The idea of such a possibility only brought him fresh pain. His gentlechivalric nature shrank within itself at the thought of the bereavementthat double loss would be. There was little room in his mind forthe envies of stronger men. Certainly Fergus had no suspicion of theexistence of his secret pain. He found no alteration in his gentlefriend. 

Among the Reverend Paul's private ventures was a small night schoolwhich he had managed to establish by slow degrees. He had picked up areluctant scholar here, and one there, --two or three pit lads, two orthree girls, and two or three men for whose attendance he had worked sohard and waited so long that he was quite surprised at his success inthe end. He scarcely knew how he had managed it, but the pupils werethere in the dingy room of the National School, waiting for him on twonights in the week, upon which nights he gave them instruction on a planof his own. He had thought the matter so little likely to succeed atfirst, that he had engaged in it as a private work, and did not evenmention it until his friends discovered it by chance. 

Said Jud Bates to Miss Barholm, during one of their confidentialinterviews:

"Did tha ivver go to a neet skoo?"

"No, " said Anice. 

Jud fondled Nib's ears patronizingly. 

"I ha', an' I'm goin' again. So is Nib. _He's_ getten one. "

"Who?" for Jud had signified by a gesture that _he_ was not the dog, butsome indefinite person in the village. 

"Th' little Parson. "

"Say, Mr. Grace, " suggested Anice. "It sounds better. "

"Aye--Mester Grace--but ivverybody ca's him th' little Parson. He'sgetten a neet skoo i' th' town, an' he axed me to go, an' I went Itook Nib an' we larned our letters; leastways I larned mine, an' Nib helistened wi' his ears up, an' th' Par--Mester Grace laffed. He wur navext at Nib comin'. He said 'let him coom, as he wur so owd-fashioned. '"

So Mr. Grace found himself informed upon, and was rather abashed atbeing confronted with his enterprise a few days after by Miss Barholm. 

"I like it, " said Anice. "Joan Lowrie learned to read and write in anight school. Mr. Derrick told me so. "

A new idea seemed to have been suggested to her. 

"Mr. Grace, " she said, "why could not _I_ help you? Might I?"

His delight revealed itself in his face. His first thought was aselfish, unclerical one, and sudden consciousness sent the color to hisforehead as he answered her, though he spoke quite calmly. 

"There is no reason why you should not--if you choose, " he said, "unlessMr. Barholm should object. I need not tell you how grateful I shouldbe. "

"Papa will not object, " she said, quietly. 

The next time the pupils met, she presented herself in the school-room. 

Ten minutes after Grace had given her work to her she was as much athome with it as if she had been there from the first. 

"Hoo's a little un, " said one of the boys, "but hoo does na seem to beeasy feart. Hoo does not look a bit tuk back. "

She had never been so near to Paul Grace during their friendship aswhen she walked home with him. A stronger respect for him was growingin her, --a new reverence for his faithfulness. She had always liked andtrusted him, but of late she had learned to do more. She recognizedmore fully the purity and singleness of his life. She accused herself ofhaving underrated him. 

"Please let me help you when I can, Mr. Grace, " she said; "I am notblaming anybody--there is no real blame, even if I had the right toattach it to any one; but there are mistakes now and then, and you mustpromise me that I may use my influence to prevent them. "

She had stopped at the gate to say this, and she held out her hand. Itwas a strange thing that she could be so utterly oblivious of the painshe inflicted. But even Derrick would have taken her hand with lessself-control. He was so fearful of wounding or disturbing her, that hewas continually on his guard in her presence, and especially when shewas thus warm and unguarded herself. 

He had fancied before, sometimes, that she had seen his difficulties, and sympathized with him, but he had never hope'd that she would be thusunreserved. His thanks came from the depths of his heart; he felt thatshe had lightened his burden. 

After this, Miss Barholm was rarely absent from her place at the school. The two evenings always found her at work among her young women, and shemade very steady progress among them. 

By degrees the enterprise was patronized more freely. New pupils droppedin, and were usually so well satisfied that they did not drop out again. Grace gave all the credit to Anice, but Anice knew better than to acceptit. She had been his "novelty" she said; time only would prove whetherher usefulness was equal to her power of attraction. 

She had been teaching in the school about three weeks, when a servantcame to her one night as she sat reading, with the information that ayoung woman wished to see her. 

"A fine-looking young woman, Miss, " added the girl. "I put her into yourown room, as you give orders. "

The room was a quiet place, away from the sounds of the house, which hadgradually come to be regarded as Miss Barholm's. It was not a large roombut it was a pretty one, with wide windows and a good view, and as Aniceliked it, her possessions drifted into it until they filled it, --herbooks, her pictures, --and as she spent a good deal of her time there, it was invariably spoken of as her room, and she had given orders to theservants that her village visitors should be taken to it when they came. 

Carrying her book in her hand, she went upstairs. She had been very muchinterested in what she was reading, and had hardly time to change thechannel of her thought. But when she opened the door, she was broughtback to earth at once. 

Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ in the lastagony, and beneath it was written, "It is finished. " Before it, as Aniceopened the door, stood Joan Lowrie, with Liz's sleeping child on herbosom. She had come upon the picture suddenly, and it had seized on somedeep, reluctant emotion. She had heard some vague history of the Man;but it was different to find herself in this silent room, confrontingthe upturned face, the crown, the cross, the anguish and the mystery. She turned toward Anice, forgetting all else but her emotion. She evenlooked at her for a few seconds in questioning silence, as if waitingfor an answer to words she had not spoken. 

When she found her voice, it was of the picture she spoke, not of thereal object of her visit. 

"Tha knows, " she said, "I dunnot, though I've heerd on it afore. What isit as is finished? I dunnot quite see. What is it?"

"It means, " said Anice, "that God's Son has finished his work. "

Joan did not speak. 

"I have no words of my own, to explain, " continued Anice. "I can tellyou better in the words of the men who loved him and saw him die. "

Joan turned to her. 

"Saw him dee!" she repeated. 

"There were men who saw him when he died you know, " said Anice. "The NewTestament tells us how. It is as real as the picture, I think. Did younever read it?"

The girl's face took an expression of distrust and sullenness. 

"Th' Bible has na been i' my line, " she answered;

"I've left that to th' parsons an' th' loike; but th' pictur' tuk myeye. It seemt different. "

"Let us sit down, " said Anice, "you will be tired of standing. "

When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who wassleeping, lowering her voice for fear of disturbing it. Joan regardedthe little thing with a look of half-subdued pride. 

"I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi' me than wi' Liz, " shesaid. "It worrits Liz an' it neer worrits me. I'm so strong, yo' see, Icon carry it, an' scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an' itseems to me as it knows it too, fur th' minute she begins to fret itfrets too. "

There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she beganto explain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancyingthat she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence shereluctantly submitted to. She had come to speak about the night school. 

"Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to, " she said; "I larntto reed theer an' write a bit, but--but theer's other things I'd loiketo know. Tha canst understand, " she added a little abruptly, "I need natell yo'. Little Jud Bates said as yo' had a class o' yore own, an'it come into my moind as I would ax yo' about it. If I go to th' skooI--I'd loike to be wi' ye. "

"You can come to me, " said Anice. "And do you know, I think you can helpme. " This thought had occurred to her suddenly. "I am sure you can helpme, " she repeated. 

When Joan at last started to go away, she paused before the picture, hesitating for a moment, and then she turned to Anice again. 

"Yo' say as th' book maks it seem real as th' pictur, " she said. 

"It seems so to me, " Anice answered. 

"Will yof lend me th' book?" she asked abruptly. 

Anice's own Bible lay upon a side-table. She took it up and handed it tothe girl, saying simply, "I will give you this one if you will take itIt was mine. "

And Joan carried the book away with her. 

CHAPTER XIV - The Open "Davy"

 Mester Derik

 Th' rools is ben broak agen on th' quiet bi them as broak em afore, i naim no naimes an wudnt say nowt but our loifes is in danger And more than one, i Only ax yo' tu Wach out. I am

 Respekfully

 A honest man wi a famly tu fede

The engineer found this letter near his plate one morning on coming downto breakfast. His landlady explained that her daughter had picked it upinside the garden gate, where it had been thrown upon the gravel-walk, evidently from the road. 

Derrick read it twice or three times before putting it in his pocket. Upon the whole, he was not unprepared for the intelligence. He knewenough of human nature--such human nature as Lowrie represented--to feelsure that the calm could not continue. If for the present the man didnot defy him openly, he would disobey him in secret, while biding histime for other means of retaliation. 

Derrick had been on the lookout for some effort at revenge; but so farsince the night Joan had met him upon the road, Lowrie outwardly hadbeen perfectly quiet and submissive. 

After reading the letter, Derrick made up his mind to prompt anddecisive measures, and set about considering what these measures shouldbe, There was only one certain means of redress and safety, --Lowrie mustbe got rid of at once. It would not be a difficult matter either. There was to be a meeting of the owners that very week, and Derrickhad reports to make, and the mere mention of the violation of the ruleswould be enough. 

"Bah!" he said aloud. "It is not pleasant; but it must be done. "

The affair had several aspects, rendering it un-pleasant, but Derrickshut his eyes to them resolutely. It seemed, too, that it was notdestined that he should have reason to remain undecided. That very dayhe was confronted with positive proof that the writer of the anonymouswarning was an honest man, with an honest motive. 

During the morning, necessity called him away from his men to a sidegallery, and entering this gallery, he found himself behind a manwho stood at one side close to the wall, his Davy lamp open, his pipeapplied to the flame. It was Dan Lowrie, and his stealthy glance overhis shoulder revealing to him that he was discovered, he turned with anoath. 

"Shut that lamp, " said Derrick, "and give me your false key. "

Lowrie hesitated. 

"Give me that key, " Derrick repeated, "or I will call the gang in thenext gallery and see what they have to say about the matter. "

"Dom yore eyes! does tha think as my toime 'll nivver coom?"

But he gave up the key. 

"When it comes, " he said, "I hope I shall be ready to help myself. NowI've got only one thing to do. I gave you fair warning and asked you toact the man toward your fellows. You have played the scoundrel instead, and I have done with you. I shall report you. That's the end of it. "

He went on his way, and left the man uttering curses under his breath. If there had not been workers near at hand, Derrick might not havegotten away so easily. Among the men in the next gallery there weresome who were no friends to Lowrie, and who would have given him roughhandling if they had caught him just at that moment, and the fellow knewit. 

Toward the end of the week, the owners came, and Derrick made hisreport. The result was just what he had known it would be. Explosionshad been caused before by transgressions of the rules, and explosionswere expensive and disastrous affairs. Lowrie received his discharge, and his fellow-workmen a severe warning, to the secret consternation ofsome among them. 

That the engineer of the new mines was a zealous and really amiableyoung man, if rather prone to innovations, became evident to hisemployers. But his innovations were not encouraged. So, notwithstandinghis arguments, the blast-furnaces held their own, and "for the present, "as the easy-natured manager put it, other matters, even more important, were set aside. 

"There is much to be done, Derrick, " he said; "really so much thatrequires time and money, that we must wait a little. 'Rome, etc'. "

"Ah, Rome!" returned Derrick. "I am sometimes of the opinion thatRome had better never been built at all. You will not discharge yourimperfect apparatus for the same reason that you will discharge acollier, --which is hardly fair to the collier. Your blast-furnacesexpose the miners to as great danger as Lowrie's pipe. The presence ofeither may bring about an explosion when it is least expected. "

"Well, well, " was the good-natured response; "we have not exploded yet;and we have done away with Lowrie's pipe. "

Derrick carried the history of his ill-success to Anice, somewhatdejectedly. 

"All this is discouraging to a man, " said Derrick, and then he addedmeditatively, "As to the rest, I wonder what Joan Lowrie will think ofit. "

A faint sense of discomfort fell upon Anice--not exactly easy tounderstand. The color fluttered to her cheek and her smile died away. But she did not speak, --merely waited to hear what Derrick had to say. 

He had nothing more to say about Joan Lowrie:--when he recoveredhimself, as he did almost immediately, he went back to the discussion ofhis pet plans, and was very eloquent on the subject. 

Going home one evening, Derrick found himself at a turn of the roadonly a few paces behind Joan. He had thought much of her of late, andwondered whether she was able to take an utterly unselfish view of hisaction. She had a basket upon her arm and looked tired. He strode up toher side and spoke to her without ceremony. 

"Let me carry that, " he said. "It is too heavy for you. "

The sun was setting redly, so perhaps it was the sunset that flung itscolor upon her face as she turned to look at him. 

"Thank yo', " she answered. "I'm used to car-ryin' such-loike loads. "

But he took her burden from her, and even if she had wished to be leftto herself she had no redress, and accordingly submitted. Influenceslong at work upon her had rendered her less defiant than she had beenin the past. There was an element of quiet in her expression, such asDerrick had not seen when her beauty first caught his attention. 

They walked together silently for a while. 

"I should like to hear you say that you do not blame me, " said Derrick, at last, abruptly. 

She knew what he meant, it was evident

"I conna blame yo' fur doin' what were reet, " she answered. 

"Right, --you thought it right?"

"Why should na I? Yo' couldna ha' done no other. "

"Thank you for saying that, " he returned. "I have thought once or twicethat you might have blamed me. "

"I did na know, " was her answer. "I did na know as I had done owt tomak' yo' think so ill of me. "

He did not find further comment easy. He felt, as he had felt before, that Joan had placed him at a disadvantage. He so often made irritatingmistakes in his efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found thathe had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with her problems and her moods, was far less difficult to comprehend than Joan Lowrie. 

Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's eyes hadcuriosity and wonder in them when she met her friend. 

"Joan, " she said, peering over the door-sill at Derrick's retreatingfigure, "is na that one o' th' mesters? Is na it the Lunnon engineer, Joan?"

"Yes, " Joan answered briefly. 

The pretty, silly creature's eyes grew larger, with a shade of awe. 

"Is na it th' one as yore feyther's so bitter agen?"

"Yes. "

"An' is na he a gentleman? He dunnot look loike a workin' mon. His cloasdunnot fit him loike common foakes. He mun be a gentleman. "

"I've heerd foak ca' him one; an' if his cloas fit him reet, he mun beone, I suppose. "

Liz looked after him again. 

"Aye, " she sighed, "he's a gentleman sure enow. I've seed gentlemen enowto know th' look on 'em. Did----" hesitating fearfully, but letting hercuriosity get the better of her discretion nevertheless, --"did he courtthee, Joan?"

The next moment she was frightened into wishing she had not asked thequestion. Joan turned round and faced her suddenly, pale and wrathful. 

"Nay, he did na, " she said. "I am na a lady, an' he is what tha ca'shim--a gentleman. "

CHAPTER XV - A Discovery

The first time that Joan appeared at the night school, the men andgirls looked up from their tasks to stare at her, and whisper amongthemselves; but she was, to all appearances, oblivious of theirscrutiny, and the flurry of curiosity and excitement soon died out. After the first visit her place was never vacant. On the nightsappointed for the classes to meet, she came, did the work allotted toher, and went her way again, pretty much as she did at the mines. Whenin due time Anice began to work out her plan of co-operation with her, she was not disappointed in the fulfilment of her hopes. Gradually itbecame a natural thing for a slow and timid girl to turn to Joan Lowriefor help. 

As for Joan's own progress, it was not long before Miss Barholm began toregard the girl with a new wonder. She was absolutely amazed to findout how much she was learning, and how much she had learned, workingon silently and by herself. She applied herself to her tasks with adetermination which seemed at times almost feverish. 

"I mun learn, " she said to Anice once. "I _will_, " and she closed herhand with a sudden nervous strength. 

Then again there were times when her courage seemed to fail her, thoughshe never slackened her efforts. 

"Dost tha think, " she said, "dost tha think as I could ivver learn asmuch as tha knows thysen? Does tha think a workin' lass ivver did learnas much as a lady?"

"I think, " said Anice, "that _you_ can do anything you try to do. "

By very slow degrees she had arrived at a discovery which a less closeobserver might have missed altogether, or at least only arrived at muchlater in the day of experience. Anice's thoughts were moved in thisdirection the night that Derrick slipped into that half soliloquy aboutJoan. She might well be startled. This man and woman could scarcely havebeen placed at a greater distance from each other, and yet those halfdozen words of Fergus Derrick's had suggested to his hearer that each, through some undefined attraction, was veering toward the other. Neithermight be aware of this; but it was surely true. Little as social creedsinfluenced Anice, she could not close her eyes to the incongruous--theunpleasant features of this strange situation. And, besides, there was amore intimate and personal consideration. Her own feeling toward FergusDerrick was friendship at first, and then she had suddenly awakenedand found it something more. That had startled her, too, but it hadnot alarmed her till her eyes were opened by that accidental speechof Derrick's. After that, she saw what both Derrick and Joan werethemselves blind to. 

Setting her own pain aside, she stood apart, and pitied both. As forherself, she was glad that she had made the discovery before it was toolate. She knew that there might have been a time when it would have beentoo late. As it was, she drew back, --with a pang, to be sure; but stillshe could draw back. 

"I have made a mistake, " she said to herself in secret; but it did notoccur to her to visit the consequences of the mistake upon any otherthan herself. 

The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowrie only seemed toincrease in strength. Meeting oftener, they were knit more closely, and drawn into deeper faith and friendship. With Joan, emotion wasinvariably an undercurrent. She had trained herself to a stubbornstoicism so long, and with such determination, that the habit ofcomplete self-control had become a second nature, and led her to holdthe world aloof. It was with something of secret wonder that she awoketo the consciousness of the fact that she was not holding Anice Barholmaloof, and that there was no necessity for doing so. She even found thatshe was being attracted toward her, and was submitting to her influenceas to a spell. She did not understand at first, and wondered if it wouldlast; but the nearer she was drawn to the girl, the less doubting andreluctant she became. There was no occasion for doubt, and her proudsuspiciousness melted like a cloud in the spring sunshine. Havingarmed herself against patronage and curiosity, she encountered earnestfriendship and good faith. She was not patronized, she was not askedquestions, she was left to reveal as much of herself as she chose, andallowed to retain her own secrets as if they were her own property. So she went and came to and from the Rectory; and from spending a fewminutes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spendinghours there. In this little room the books, and pictures, and otherrefinements appealed to senses unmoved before. She drew in some freshexperience with almost every breath. 

One evening, after a specially discouraging day, it occurred to Gracethat he would go and see Joan; and dropping in upon her on his way backto town, after a visit to a parishioner who lived upon the high-road, hefound the girl sitting alone--sitting as she often did, with the childasleep upon her knee; but this time with a book lying close to its handand her own. It was Anice's Bible. 

"Will yo' set down?" she said in a voice whose sound was new to him. "Theer's a chair as yo' con tak'. I conna move fur fear o' wakenin'th' choild. I'm fain to see yo' to-neet. "

He took the chair and thanked her, and waited for her next words. Only afew moments she was silent, and then she looked up at him. 

"I ha' been readin' th' Bible, " she said, as if in desperation. "Idunnot know why, unless happen some un stronger nor me set me at it. Happen it coom out o' settin here wi' th' choild. An'--well, queer enow, I coom reet on summat about childer, --that little un as he tuk andset i' th' midst o' them, an' then that theer when he said 'Suffer th'little childer to coom unto me. ' Do yo' say aw that's true? I nivverthowt on it afore, --but somehow I should na loike to think it wur na. Nay, I should na!" Then, after a moment's pause--"I nivver troubledmysen wi' readin' th' Bible afore, " she went on, "I ha' na lived wi'th' Bible soart; but now--well that theer has stirred me up. If he said_that_--if he said it hissen--Ah! mester, "--and the words breaking fromher were an actual cry, --"Aye, mester, look at th' little un here! Imunnot go wrong--I munnot, if he said it hissen!"

He felt his heart beat quick, and his pulses throb. Here was the birthof a soul; here in his hands perhaps lay the rescue of two immortalbeings. God help him! he cried inwardly. God help him to deal rightlywith this woman. He found words to utter, and uttered them with courageand with faith. What words it matters not, --but he did not fail. Joanlistened wondering, and in a passion of fear and belief. 

She clasped her arms about the child almost as if seeking help from it, and wept. 

"I munnot go wrong, " she said over and over again. "How could I hold th'little un back, if he said hissen as she mun coom? If it's true as hesaid that, I'll believe aw th' rest an' listen to yo'. 'Forbid themnot--'. Nay, but I wunnot--I could na ha' th' heart. "

CHAPTER XVI - "Owd Sammy" in Trouble

"Craddock is in serious trouble, " said Mr. Barholm to his wife anddaughter. 

"'Owd Sammy' in trouble, " said Anice. "How is that, papa?"

The Reverend Harold looked at once concerned and annoyed. In truth hehad cause for irritation. The laurels he had intended to win throughSammy Craddock were farther from being won to-day than they had everbeen. He was beginning to feel a dim, scarcely developed, but soreconviction, that they were not laurels for his particular wearing. 

"It is that bank failure at Illsbery, " he answered. "You have heard ofit, I dare say. There has been a complete crash, and Craddock's smallsavings being deposited there, he has lost everything he depended uponto support him in his old age. It is a hard business. "

"Have you been to see Craddock?" Mrs. Barholm asked. 

"Oh! yes, " was the answer, and the irritation became even more apparentthan before. "I went as soon as I heard it, last night indeed; but itwas of no use. I had better have stayed away. I don't seem to make muchprogress with Craddock, somehow or other. He is such a cross-grained, contradictory old fellow, I hardly know what to make of him. And to addto his difficulties, his wife is so prostrated by the blow that she isconfined to her bed. I talked to them and advised them to have patience, and look for comfort to the Fountain-head; but Craddock almost seemed totake it ill, and was even more disrespectful in manner than usual. "

It was indeed a heavy blow that had fallen upon "Owd Sammy. " For aman to lose his all at his time of life would have been hard enoughanywhere; but it was trebly hard to meet with such a trial in Riggan. Tohave money, however small a sum, "laid by i' th' bank, " was in Riggan tobe illustrious. The man who had an income of ten shillings a week wasa member of society whose opinion bore weight; the man with twenty wasregarded with private awe and public respect. He was deferred to as aman of property; his presence was considered to confer somethinglike honor upon an assembly, or at least to make it respectable. TheGovernment was supposed to be not entirely oblivious of his existence, and his remarks upon the affairs of the nation, and the conduct of thePrime Minister and Cabinet, were regarded as having something more thanlocal interest. Sammy Craddock had been the man with twenty shillingsincome. He had worked hard in his youth and had been too shrewd andfar-sighted to spend hard. His wife had helped him, and a lucky windfallupon the decease of a parsimonious relative had done the rest. Theweekly deposit in the old stocking hidden under the mattress had becomea bank deposit, and by the time he was incapacitated from activelabor, a decent little income was ready. When the Illsbery Bank stoppedpayment, not only his daily bread but his dearly valued importancewas swept away from him at one fell blow. Instead of being a man ofproperty, with a voice in the affairs of the nation, he was a beggar. Hesaw himself set aside among the frequenters of The Crown, his politicalopinions ignored, his sarcasms shorn of their point. Knowing his povertyand misfortune; the men who had stood in awe of him would begin tosuspect him of needing their assistance and would avoid him accordingly. 

"It's human natur', " he said. "No one loikes a dog wi' th' mange, whether th' dog's to blame or no. Th' dog may ha' getten it honest. Tisna th' dog, it's the mange as foakes want to get rid on. "

"Providence?" said he to the Rector, when that portly consoler called onhim. "It's Providence, is it? Well, aw I say is, that if that's th' wayso' Providence, th' less notice Providence takes o' us, th' better. "

His remarks upon his first appearance at The Crown among his associates, after the occurrence of the misfortune, were even more caustic andirreverent He was an irreverent old sinner at his best, and now Sammywas at his worst. Seeing his crabbed, wrinkled old face drawn intoan expression signifying defiance at once of his ill luck and worldlycomment, his acquaintances shook their heads discreetly. Their reverencefor him as a man of property could not easily die out. The next thing tobeing a man of property, was to have possessed worldly goods which hadbeen "made away wi', " it scarcely mattered how. Indeed even to have"made away wi' a mort o' money" one's self, was to be regarded a man ofparts and of no inconsiderable spirit. 

"Yo're in a mort o' trouble, Sammy, I mak' no doubt, " remarked oneoracle, puffing at his long clay. 

"Trouble enow, " returned Sammy, shortly, "if you ca' it trouble to be onth' road to th' poor-house. "

"Aye, indeed!" with a sigh. "I should think so. But trouble's th' lot o'mon. Riches is deceitful an' beauty is vain--not as tha wur ivver mucho' a beauty, Sammy; I canna mean that. "

"Dunnot hurt thysen explaining I nivver set up fur one. I left that tothee. Thy mug wus allus thy fortune. "

"Tha'rt fretted now, Sammy, " he said. "Tha'rt fretted, an' it maks theesharp-tongued. "

"Loike as not, " answered Sammy. "Frettin' works different wi' some foakto what it does wi' others. I nivver seed thee fretted, mysen. Does itha' th' same effect on thee? If it happens to, I should think it wouldna harm thee, --or other foak either. A bit o' sharpness is na so hard tostand wheer it's a variety. "

"Sithee, Sammy, " called out a boisterous young fellow from the otherside of the room. "What did th' Parson ha' to say to thee? Thwaite wurtellin' me as he carried th' prayer-book to thee, as soon as he heerdth' news. Did he read thee th' Christenin' service, or th' Burial, togi' thee a bit o' comfort?"

"Happen he gi' him both, and throwed in th' Litany, " shouted another. "How wur it, Sammy? Let's hear. "

Sammy's face began to relax. A few of the knots and wrinkles showedsigns of dispersing. A slow twisting of the features took place, whichmight have been looked upon as promising a smile in due course of time. These young fellows wanted to hear him talk, and "tak' off th' Par-son. "His occupation was not entirely gone, after all. It was speciallysoothing to his vanity to feel that his greatest importance lay inhis own powers, and not altogether in more corruptible and uncertainattractions. He condescended to help himself to a pipe-full of afriend's tobacco. 

"Let's hear, " cried a third member of the company. "Gi' us th' tale owtan' owt, owd lad. Tha'rt th' one to do it graidely. "

Sammy applied a lucifer to the fragrant weed, and sucked at his pipedeliberately. 

"It's noan so much of a tale, " he said, with an air of disparagementand indifference. "Yo' chaps mak' so much out o' nowt. Th' Parson's wellenow i' his way, but, " in naďve self-satisfaction, "I mun say he's afoo', an' th' biggest foo' fur his size I ivver had th' pleasure o'seein'. "

They knew the right chord was touched. A laugh went round, but there wasno other interruption and Sammy proceeded. 

"Whatten yo' lads think as th' first thing he says to me wur?" puffingvigorously. "Why, he cooms in an' sets hissen down, an' he swells hissenout loike a frog i' trouble, an' ses he, 'My friend, I hope you clingto th' rock o' ages. ' An' ses I, 'No I dunnot nowt o' th' soart, an'be dom'd to yo'. 'It wur na hos_pit_ible, '" with a momentary touch ofdeprecation, --"An' I dunnot say as it wur hospitible, but I wor na i'th' mood to be hospitible just at th' toime. It tuk him back too, but hegettin round after a bit, an' he tacklet me agen, an' we had it back'ardand for'ard betwixt us for a good haaf hour. He said it wur Providence, an' I said, happen it wur, an' happen it wurn't. I wur na so friendlyand familiar wi' th' Lord as he seemed to be, so I could na tell foakaw he meant, and aw he did na mean. Sithee here, lads, " making a fistof his knotty old hand and laying it upon the table, "that theer's whatstirs me up wi' th' parson kind. They're allus settin down to explainwhat th' Lordamoigty's up to, as if he wur a confidential friend o'theirs as they wur bound to back up i' some road; an' they mun drag himin endways or sideways i' their talk whether or not, an' they wun-not becontent to leave him to work fur hissen. Seems to me if I wur a discipleas they ca' it, I should be ashamed i' a manner to be allus apolo-gizin'fur him as I believed in. I dunnot say for 'em to say _nowt_, but I _do_say for 'em not to be so dom'd free an' easy about it. Now theer's th'owd Parson, he's getten a lot o' Bible words as he uses, an' he brings'em in by the scruft o' th' neck, if he canna do no better, --fur bring'em in he mun, --an' it looks loike he's aw i' a fever till he's said 'eman' getten 'em off his moind. An' it seems to me loike, when he has said'em, he soart o' straightens hissen out, an' feels comfortable, loike amon as has done a masterly job as conna be mended. As fur me, yo' know, I'm noan the Methody soart mysen, but I am na a foo', an' I know a foineloike principle when I see it, an' this matter o' religion is a foineenow thing if yo' could get it straightforward an' plain wi'out so muchtrimmins. But----" feeling perhaps that this was a large admission, "Iam noan o' th' Methody breed mysen. "

"An' so tha tellt Parson, I'll warrant, " suggested one of his listeners, who was desirous of hearing further particulars of the combat. 

"Well, well, " admitted Craddock with the self-satisfaction of a man whofeels that he has acquitted himself creditably. "Happen I did. He wurfur havin' me thank th' A'moighty fur aw ut had happent me, but I towdhim as I did na quoite see th' road clear. I dunnot thank a chap asgi'es me a crack at th' soide o' th' yed. I may stand it if so be as Iconna gi' him a crack back, but I dunnot know as I should thank him furth' favor, an' not bein' one o' th' regenerate, as he ca's 'em, I dunnotfeel loike singin' hymns just yet; happen it's 'cause I'm onregenerate, or happen it's human natur'. I should na wonder if it's 'pull devil, pull baker, ' wi' th' best o' foak, --foak as is na prize foo's, loike th'owd Parson. Ses I to him, 'Not bein' regenerate, I dunnot believe i'so much grace afore meat. I say, lets ha' th' meat first, an' th' gracearterward. '"

These remarks upon matters theological were applauded enthusiasticallyby Craddock's audience. "Owd Sammy" had finished his say, however, andbelieving that having temporarily exhausted his views upon any subject, it was well to let the field lie fallow, he did not begin again. Heturned his attention from his audience to his pipe, and the intimatefriends who sat near. 

"What art tha goin' to do, owd lad?" asked one. 

"Try fur a seat i' Parlyment, " was the answer, "or pack my bits o' dudsi' a wheelbarrow, an' set th' owd lass on 'era an' tak' th' nighest roadto th' Union. I mun do summat fur a bein'. "

"That's true enow. We're main sorry fur thee, Sammy. Tak' another mug o'sixpenny to keep up thy sperrets. Theer's nowt as cheers a mon loike asup o' th' reet soart. "

"I shanna get much on it if I go to th' poor-house, " remarked Sammy, filling his beer mug. "Skilly an' water-gruel dunnot fly to a raon'shead, I'll warrant Aye! I wonder how th' owd lass'll do wi'out her dropo' tea, an' how she'll stand bein' buried by th' parish? That'll beworse than owt else. She'd set her moind on ridin' to th' grave-yard i'th' shiniest hearse as could be getten, an' wi' aw th' black feathers i'th' undertaker's shop wavin' on th' roof. Th' owd wench wur quoite seti' her notion o' bein' a bit fashynable at th' last. I believe hoo'd ha'enjoyed th' ride in a quiet way. Eh, dear! I'm feart she'll nivver beable to stand th' thowt o' bein' put under i' a common style. I wishwe'd kept a bit o' brass i' th' owd stockin'. "

"It's a bad enow lookout, " granted another, "but I would na gi' up aw atonct, Sammy. Happen tha could find a bit o' leet work, as ud keepthee owt o' th' Union. If tha could get a word or two spoke to MesterHoviland, now. He's jest lost his lodge-keeper an' he is na close aboutpayin' a mon fur what he does. How would tha loike to keep the lodge?"

"It ud be aw I'd ax, " said Sammy. "I'd be main well satisfied, yo' mebbesure; but yo' know theer's so mony lookin' out for a job o' that koind, an' I ha' na mony friends among th' quality. I nivver wur smooth-tonguedenow. "

True enough that. Among the country gentry, Sammy Craddock was regardedas a disrespectful, if not a dangerous, old fellow. A man who madesatirical observations upon the ways and manners of his socialsuperiors, could not be much better than a heretic. And since hisassociates made an oracle of him, he was all the more dangerous. Herevered neither Lords nor Commons, and was not to be awed by the mostimposing institutions. He did not take his hat off when the gentry rodeby, and it was well known that he had jeered at several of the mostimportant individuals in county office. Consequently, discreet personswho did not believe in the morals of "the masses" shook their heads athim, figuratively speaking, and predicted that the end of his careerwould be unfortunate. So it was not very likely that he would receivemuch patronage in the hour of his downfall. 

Sammy Craddock was in an uncomfortable frame of mind when he left hiscompanions and turned homeward. It was a bad lookout for himself, and abad one for "th' owd lass. " His sympathy for the good woman was not of asentimental order, but it was sympathy nevertheless. He had been a goodhusband, if not an effusive one. "Th' owd lass" had known her only rivalin The Crown and his boon companions; and upon the whole, neither hadinterfered with her comfort, though it was her habit and her pleasureto be loud in her condemnation and disparagement of both. She would nothave felt her connubial life complete without a grievance, and Sammy'stendency to talk politics over his pipe and beer was her standardresource. 

When he went out, he had left her lying down in the depths of despair, but when he entered the house, he found her up and dressed, seated bythe window in the sun, a bunch of bright flowers before her. 

"Well now!" he exclaimed. "Tha niwer says! What's takken thee? I thowttha wur bedrid fur th' rest o' thy days. "

"Howd thy tongue, " she answered with a proper touch of wifely irritationat his levity. "I've had a bit o' company an' it's chirked me up summat. That little lass o' th' owd Parson has been settin wi' me. "

"That's it, is it?"

"Aye, an' I tell yo' Sammy, she's a noice little wench. Why, she'sgetten th' ways o' a woman, stead o' a lass, --she's that theer quoietan' steady, an' she's getten a face as pretty as her ways, too. "

Sammy scratched his head and reflected. 

"I mak' no doubt on it, " he answered. "I mak' no doubt on it. It wurher, tha knows, as settlet th' foight betwixt th' lads an' th' dog. I'mwonderin' why she has na been here afore. "

"Well now!" taking up a stitch in her knitting, "that's th' queer parto' it. Whatten yo' think th'little thing said, when I axt her why? Shesays, 'It did na seem loike I was needed exactly, an' I did na know asyo'd care to ha' a stranger coom wi'out bein' axt. ' Just as if she hadbeen nowt but a neebor's lass, and would na tak' th' liberty. "

"That's noan th' owd Parson's way, " said Sammy. 

"Th' owd Parson!" testily; "I ha' no patience wi' him. Th' little lassis as different fro' him as chalk is fro' cheese. "

CHAPTER XVII - The Member of Parliament

The morning following, Anice's father being called away by business leftRiggan for a few days' absence, and it was not until after he had gone, that the story of Mr. Haviland's lodge-keeper came to her ears. Mr. Haviland was a Member of Parliament, a rich man with a large estate, andhis lodge-keeper had just left him to join a fortunate son in America. Miss Barholm heard this from one of her village friends when she wasout with the phaeton and the gray pony, and she at once thought of SammyCraddock. The place was the very thing for him. The duties were light, the lodge was a pretty and comfortable cottage, and Mr. Haviland wasknown to be a generous master. If Sammy could gain the situation, he wasprovided for. But of course there were other applicants, and who wasto speak for him? She touched up the gray pony with her whip, and droveaway from the woman who had told her the news, in a perplexed frame ofmind. She herself knew Mr. Haviland only by sight, his estate was threemiles from the village, her father was away, and there was really notime to be lost. She drove to the corner of the road and paused therefor a moment. 

"Oh indeed, I must go myself, " she said at last. "It is unconventional, but there is no other way. " And she bent over and touched the pony againand turned the corner without any further delay. 

She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and at the end of thethird, --at the very gates of the Haviland Park, in fact, --fortune cameto her rescue. A good-humored middle-aged gentleman on a brownhorse came cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates, approached her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courteously; seeing him, she stopped her pony, for she recognized Mr. Haviland. 

She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise to her face. 

It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by conscience to stop agentleman on the highway and ask a favor of him. 

"Mr. Haviland, " she said. "If you have a moment to spare----"

He drew rein by her phaeton, removing his hat again. He had heard agreat deal of Miss Barholm from his acquaintance among the countyfamilies. He had heard her spoken of as a rather singular young lady whohad the appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine reconstructorof society. He had heard of her little phaeton too, and her gray pony, and so, though he had never seen her before, he recognized her at once. 

"Miss Barholm?" he said with deference. 

"Yes, " answered Anice. "And indeed I am glad to have been fortunateenough to meet you here. Papa is away from home, and I could not waitfor his return, because I was afraid I should be too late. I wanted tospeak to you about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland. "

He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholm must be a terribleyoung woman, with a tendency to model cottages and night schools. 

Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are not apt to beattractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charitiesin which they may indulge, --there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic oldwomen, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such thingsto which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among aclass of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitableexercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plansbranch out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. Sothe country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies, --herteaching in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for thedaughter of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with raggedboys and fighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothersof nameless babies, --hearing of these things, I say, the excellentnonenthusiasts shook their heads as the very mildest possible expressionof dissent. They suspected strong-mindedness and "reform"--perhaps evenpolitics and a tendency to advance irregular notions concerning theballot. "At any rate, " said they, "it does not look well, and it is verymuch better for young persons to leave these matters alone and do asothers do who are guided wholly by their elders. "

It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see sitting in hermodest phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up at him with a pair of thelargest and clearest eyes he had ever seen, while she told him aboutSammy Craddock. 

"I want the place very much for him, you see, " she ended. "But of courseI do not wish to be unfair to any one who may want it, and deserveit more. If there is any one who really _is_ in greater need of it, Isuppose I must give it up. "

"But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody, " answered Mr. Havilandquite eagerly. "I can assure you, Miss Barholm, that the half dozen menwho have applied to me are without a solitary exception, unmitigatedscamps--great strong burly fellows, who would, ten to one, spend theirdays in the public house, and their nights in my preserves, and leavetheir wives and children to attend to my gates. This Craddock isevidently the very man for me; I am not a model landowner, but I liketo combine charity with subservience to my own interest occasionally. I have heard of the old fellow. Something of a demagogue, isn't he? Butthat will not frighten me. I will allow him to get the better of me inpolitical discussion, if he will leave my pheasants alone. "

"I will answer for the pheasants, " said Anice, "if you will let me sendhim to you. "

"I will see him to-morrow morning with pleasure, " said Mr. Haviland. "And if there is anything else I can do, Miss Barholm------"

"Thank you, there is nothing else at present. Indeed, you do not knowhow grateful I feel. "

Before an hour had passed, Sammy Craddock heard the good news. Anicedrove back to his house and told him, without delay. 

"If you will go to-morrow morning, Mr. Haviland will see you, " sheended; "and I think you will be good friends, Mr. Craddock. "

"Owd Sammy" pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked at her. 

"An' tha went at th' business o' thy own accord an' managt it i' haafan hour!" he said. "Well, I'm dom'd, --axin your pardin fur takkin th'liberty; it's a habit I've getten--but I be, an' no mistake. "

He had not time to get over his grateful amazement and recover hisnatural balance before she had said all she had come to say, and wasgone, leaving him with "th' owd lass" and his admiration. 

"Well, " said Sammy, "I mun say I nivver seed nowt loike it i' my loife. To think o' th' little wench ha'in' so mich gumption, an' to thinko' her takkin th' matter i' hond th' minnit she struck it! Why! hoo'sgetten as mich sense as a mon. Eh! but hoo's a rare un--I said it when Iseed her amongst th' lads theer, an' I say it again. An' hoo is na michbigger nor six penn'orth o' copper neyther. An' I warrant hoo nivverthowt o' fillin her pocket wi' tracks by way o' comfort. Well, tha'stnoan ha' to dee i' th' Union after aw, owd lass, an' happen we con savea bit to gi' thee a graidely funeral if tha'lt mak' up thy moind to stayto th' top a bit longer. "

CHAPTER XVIII - A Confession of Faith

The Sunday following the Curate's visit to Lowrie's cottage, just beforethe opening of the morning service at St, Michael's, Joan Lowrie en'tered, and walking up the side aisle, took her place among the freeseats. The church members turned to look at her as she passed theirpews. On her part, she seemed to see nobody and to hear nothing of therustlings of the genteel garments stirred by the momentary excitementcaused by her appearance. 

The Curate, taking his stand in the pulpit that morning, saw after thefirst moment only two faces among his congregation. One, from among theold men and women in the free seats, looked up at him with questioningin its deep eyes, as if its owner had brought to him a solemn problemto be solved this very hour, or forever left at rest; the other, turnedtoward him from the Barholm pew, alight with appeal and trust. He stoodin sore need of the aid for which he asked in his silent opening prayer. 

Some of his flock who were somewhat prone to underrate the youngParson's talents, were moved to a novel comprehension of them thismorning. The more appreciative went home saying among themselves thatthe young man had power after all, and for once at least he had preachedwith uncommon fire and pathos. His text was a brief one, --but threewords, --the three words Joan had read beneath the picture of the deadChrist: "It is finished!"

If it was chance that led him to them to-day, it was a strange andfortunate chance, and surely he had never preached as he preached then. 

After the service, Anice looked for Joan in vain; she had gone beforethe rest of the congregation. 

But in the evening, being out in the garden near the holly hedge, sheheard her name spoken, and glancing over the leafy barrier, saw Joanstanding on the side path, just as she had seen her the first time theyhad spoken to each other. 

"I ha' na a minnit to stay, " she said without any prelude, "but I ha'summat to say to yo'. "

Her manner was quiet, and her face wore a softened pallor. Even herphysical power for a time appeared subdued. And yet she looked steadyand resolved. 

"I wur at church this mornin'. " she began again almost immediately. 

"I saw you, " Anice answered. 

"I wur nivver theer before. I went to see fur mysen. I ha' read the bookyo' g' me, an' theer's things in it as I nivver heerd on. Mester Gracetoo, --he coom to see me an' I axt him questions. Theer wur things as Iwanted to know, an' now it seems loike it looks clearer. What wi' th'pickur', --it begun wi' th' pictur', --an' th' book, an' what _he_ saidto-day i' church, I've made up my moind. "

She paused an instant, her lips trembled. 

"I dunnot want to say much about it now, " she said, "I ha' not gettenth' words. But I thowt as yo'd loike to know. I believe i' th' Book; Ibelieve i' th' Cross; I believe i' Him as deed on it! That's what I coomto say. "

The woman turned without another word and went away. 

Anice did not remain in the garden. The spirit of Joan Lowrie's intensemood communicated itself to her. She, too, trembled and her pulse beatrapidly. She thought of Paul Grace and wished for his presence. She feltherself drawn near to him again. She wanted to tell him that his harvesthad come, that his faithfulness had not been without its reward. Her ownlabor she only counted as chance-work. 

She found Fergus Derrick in the parlor, talking to her mother. 

He was sitting in his favorite position, leaning back in a chair beforea window, his hands clasped behind his head. His friendly intercoursewith the family had extended beyond the ceremonious epoch, when a man'sattitudes are studied and unnatural. In these days Derrick was as muchat ease at the Rectory as an only son might have been. 

"I thought some one spoke to you across the hedge, Anice?" her mothersaid. 

"Yes, " Anice answered. "It was Joan Lowrie. "

She sat down opposite Fergus, and told him what had occurred. Her voicewas not quite steady, and she made the relation as brief as possible. Derrick sat looking out of the window without moving. 

"Mr. Derrick, " said Anice at last, after a few minutes had elapsed, "What _now_ is to be done with Joan Lowrie?"

Derrick roused himself with a start to meet her eyes and find themalmost sad. 

"What now?" he said. "God knows! For one, I cannot see the end. "

CHAPTER XIX - Ribbons

The light in the cottage upon the Knoll Road burned late in these days, and when Derrick was delayed in the little town, he used to see ittwinkle afar off, before he turned the bend of the road on his way home. He liked to see it. It became a sort of beacon light, and as such hebegan to watch for it. He used to wonder what Joan was doing, and heglanced in through the curtainless windows as he passed by. Then hediscovered that when the light shone she was at work. Sometimes she wassitting at the wooden table with a book, sometimes she was laboring atsome task with pen and ink, sometimes she was trying to use her needle. 

She had applied to Anice for instruction in this last effort. It was notlong before Anice found that she was intent upon acquiring the womanlyarts her life had put it out of her power to learn. 

"I'd loike to learn to sew a bit, " she had said, and the confessionseemed awkward and reluctant "I want to learn to do a bit o' woman'swork. I'm tired o' bein' neyther th' one thing nor th' other. Seemsloike I've allus been doin' men's ways, an' I am na content. "

Two or three times Derrick saw her passing to and fro before the window, hushing the child in her arms, and once he even heard her singing toit in a low, and evidently rarely used voice. Up to the time that Joanfirst sang to the child, she had never sung in her life. She caughtherself one day half chanting a lullaby she had heard Anice sing. Thesound of her own voice was so novel to her, that she paused all at oncein her walk across the room, prompted by a queer impulse to listen. 

"It moight ha' been somebody else, " she said. "I wonder what made me doit. It wur a queer thing. "

Sometimes Derrick met Joan entering the Rectory (at which both werefrequent visitors); sometimes, passing through the hall on her way home;but however often he met her, he never felt that he advanced at all inher friendship. 

On one occasion, having bidden Anice goodnight and gone out on thestaircase, Joan stepped hurriedly back into the room and stood at thedoor as if waiting. 

"What is it?" Anice asked. 

Joan started. She had looked flushed and downcast, and when Aniceaddressed her, an expression of conscious self-betrayal fell upon her. 

"It is Mester Derrick, " she answered, and in a moment she went out. 

Anice remained seated at the table, her hands clasped before her. 

"Perhaps, " at last she said aloud, "perhaps this is what is to be donewith her. And then--" her lips tremulous, --"it will be a work for me todo. "

Derrick's friendship and affection for herself held no germ of warmerfeeling. If she had had the slightest doubt of this, she would haverelinquished nothing. She had no exaggerated notions of self-immolation. She would not have given up to another woman what Heaven had given toherself, any more than she would have striven to win from another womanwhat had been Heaven's gift to her. If she felt pain, it was not thepain of a small envy, but of a great tenderness. She was capable ofmaking any effort for the ultimate good of the man she could have lovedwith the whole strength of her nature. 

When she entered her room that night, Joan Lowrie was moved to somesurprise by a scene which met her eyes. It was a simple thing, and undersome circumstances would have meant little; but taken in connection withher remembrance of past events, it had a peculiar significance. Lizwas sitting upon the hearth, with some odds and ends of bright-coloredribbon on her knee, and a little straw hat in her hand. She was trimmingthe hat, and using the scraps of ribbon for the purpose. When she heardJoan, she looked up and reddened somewhat, and then hung her head overher work again. 

"I'm makin' up my hat agen, " she said, almost deprecatingly. "It wursich a faded thing. "

"Are y o'?" said Joan. 

She came and stood leaning against the fireplace, and looked down atLiz thoughtfully. The shallowness and simplicity of the girl baffled hercontinually. She herself, who was prompted in action by deep motive andstrong feeling, found it hard to realize that there could be a surfacewith no depth below. 

Her momentary embarrassment having died out, Liz had quite forgottenherself in the interest of her task. She was full of self-satisfactionand trivial pleasure. She looked really happy as she tried the effect ofone bit of color after another, holding the hat up. Joan had neverknown her to show such interest in anything before. One would neverhave fancied, seeing the girl at this moment, that a blight lay upon herlife, that she could only look back with shrinking and forward withouthope. She was neither looking backward nor forward now, --all her simpleenergies were concentrated in her work. How was it? Joan asked herself. Had she forgotten--could she forget the past and be ready for pettyvanities and follies? To Joan. Liz's history had been a tragedy--atragedy which must be tragic to its end, There was something startlinglyout of keeping in the present mood of this pretty seventeen-year-oldgirl sitting eager and delighted over her lapful of ribbons. Not thatJoan begrudged her the slight happiness--she only wondered, and askedherself how it could be. 

Possibly her silence attracted Liz's attention. Suddenly she looked up, and when she saw the gravity of Joan's face, her own changed. 

"Yo're grudgin' me doin' it, " she cried. "Yo' think I ha' no reet tocare for sich things, " and she dropped hat and ribbon on her knee withan angry gesture. "Happen I ha' na, " she whimpered. "I ha' na getten noreet to no soart o' pleasure, I dare say. "

"Nay, " said Joan rousing herself from her revery. "Nay, yo' must na saythat, Liz. If it pleases yo' it conna do no hurt; I'm glad to see yo'pleased. "

"I'm tired o' doin' nowt but mope i' th' house, " Liz fretted. "I want togo out a bit loike other foak. Theer's places i' Riggan as I could go towi'out bein' slurred at--theer's other wenches as has done worse norme. Ben Maxy towd Mary on'y yesterday as I was the prettiest lass i' th'place, fur aw their slurs. "

"Ben Maxy!" Joan said slowly. 

Liz twisted a bit of ribbon around her finger. 

"It's not as I care fur what Ben Maxy says or what ony other mon says, fur th' matter o' that, but--but it shows as I need na be so michashamed o' mysen after aw, an' need na stay i' doors as if I dare nashow my face. "

Joan made no answer. 

"An' yet, " she said, smiling faintly at her own train of thoughtafterward, "I dunnot see what I'm complainin' on. Am I out o' patiencebecause her pain is na deeper? Surely I am na wantin' her to mak' th'most o' her burden. I mun be a queer wench, tryin' to mak' her happy, an' then feelin' worrited at her forgettin' her trouble. It's well asshe con let things slip so easy. "

But there came times when she could not help being anxious, seeing Lizgradually drifting out into her old world again. She was so weak, andpretty, and frivolous, so ready to listen to rough flatteries. Rigganwas more rigid in its criticism than in its morality, and criticismhaving died out, offence was forgotten through indifference ratherthan through charity. Those who had been hardest upon Liz in her day ofdarkness were carelessly ready to take her up again when her fault wasan old story overshadowed by some newer scandal. 

Joan found herself left alone with the child oftener than she usedto be, but in truth this was a relief rather than otherwise. She wasaccustomed to solitude, and the work of self-culture she had begunfilled her spare hours with occupation. 

Since his dismissal from the mines, she saw but little of her father. Sometimes she saw nothing of him for weeks. The night after he losthis place, he came into the house, and making up a small bundle of hispersonal effects, took a surly leave of the two women. 

"I'm goin' on th' tramp a bit, " he said. "If yo're axed, yo' con say I'mgone to look fur a job. My day has na coom yet, but it's on th' way. "

Since then he had only returned once or twice, and his visits had alwaysbeen brief and unexpected, and at night. The first time he had startledJoan by dropping in upon her at midnight, his small bundle on hisknob-stick over his shoulder, his clothes bespattered with road-sidemud. He said nothing of his motive in coming--merely asked for hissupper and ate it without much remark. 

"I ha' na had luck, " he said. "Luck's not i my loine; I wur na born toit, loike some foak. Happen th' tide'll tak' a turn after a bit. "

"Yore feyther wur axin me about th' engineer, " Liz said to Joan the nextmorning. "He wanted to know if we seed him pass heer i' his road hoam. D'yo' think he's getten a spite agen th' engineer yet, Joan?"

"I'm afeard, " Joan answered. "Feyther's loike to bear a grudge agen themas put him out, whether they're reet or wrong. Liz----" hesitating. 

"What is it, Joan?"

"Dunnot yo' say no more nor yo' con help when he axes yo' about th'engineer. I'm wor-ritin' mysen lest feyther should get hissen intotrouble. He's hasty, yo' know. "

In the evening she went out and left the child to its mother. She hadbusiness to look after, she told Liz, and it would keep her out late. Whatever the business was, it kept her out so late that Liz was tired ofwaiting, and went to bed worn out and a trifle fretted. 

She did not know what hour it was when she awakened; voices and a lightin the road roused her, and almost as soon as she was fully conscious, the door opened and Joan came in. Liz raised her head from the pillow tolook at her. She was pale and seemed excited. She was even trembling alittle, and her voice was unsteady as she asked, "Has th' little un been quiet, Liz?"

"Quiet enow, " said Liz. "What a toime yo' ha' been, Joan! It mun be nearmidneet. I got so worn out wi' waitin' fur yo' that I could na sit up nolonger. Wheer ha' yo' been?"

"I went to Riggan, " said Joan, "Theer wur summat as I wur obliged to seeto, an' I wur kept beyond my toime by summat as happent. But it is naquoite midneet, though it's late enow. "

"Was na theer a lantern wi' yo'?" asked Liz. "I thowt I seed th' leetfro' a lantern. "

"Yes, " Joan answered, "theer wur a lantern. As I wur turnin' into th'road, I met Mester Derrick comin' fro' th' Rectory an'--an' he walkedalongside o' me. "

CHAPTER XX - The New Gate-Keeper

Sammy Craddock made his appearance at Mr. Haviland's promptly, and beingshown into the library, which was empty, took a seat and proceeded toregard the surroundings critically. 

"Dunnot scald thy nose wi' thy own broth, " Mrs. Craddock had said to himwarningly, when he left her. "Keep a civil tongue i' thy head. Thy toimefur saucin' thy betters is past an' gone. Tha'lt ha' to tak' both fatan' lean together i' these days, or go wi'out mate. "

Sammy remembered these sage remarks rather sorely, as he sat awaitingthe master of the household. His independence had been very dear tohim, and the idea that he must relinquish it was a grievous thorn inthe flesh. He glanced round at the pictures and statuettes and shook hishead dubiously. 

"A mon wi' so many crinkum-crankums as he seems to ha' getten 'll beapt to be reyther set i' polytics. An' I'll warrant this is na th' bestparlor neyther. Aw th' wall covered wi' books too, an' a ornymentalstep-lather to climb up to th' high shelves. Well, Sammy, owd lad, tha's not seen aw th' world yet, tha finds out. Theer's a bit o' summatoutside Riggan. After aw, it does a mon no hurt to travel. I should nawonder if I mought see things as I nivver heerd on if I getten as furas th' Contynent. Theer's France now--foak say as they dunnot speakLancashire i' France, an' conna so much as understand it. Well, theer'signorance aw o'er th' world. "

The door opened at this juncture, and Mr. Haviland entered--fresh, florid and cordial. His temperament being an easy one, he ratherdreaded collision with anybody, and would especially have disliked anuncomfortable interview with this old fellow. He would like to be ableto preserve his affability of demeanor for his own sake as well as forMiss Barholm's. 

"Ah!" he said, "Craddock, is it? Glad to see you, Craddock. "

Sammy rose from his seat

"Aye, " he answered. "Sam'll Craddock fro' Riggan. Same to you, Mester. "

Mr. Haviland waved his hand good-naturedly. 

"Take your seat again, " he said. "Don't stand. You are the older man ofthe two, you know, and I dare say you are tired with your walk. You cameabout the lodge-keeper's place?"

"That little lass o' th' owd Parson's----" began Sammy. 

"Miss Anice Barholm, " interposed Mr. Havi-land. "Yes, she told me shewould send you. I never had the pleasure of seeing her until she drovehere yesterday to ask for the place for you. She was afraid to lose timein waiting for her father's return. "

"Yo' nivver saw her afore?"

"No. "

"Well, " rubbing his hands excitedly over the knob of his stick, "hoo's ararer un than I thowt fur, even. Hoo'll stond at nowt, wont that littlewench, " and he gave vent to his feelings in a delighted chuckle. "I'dloike to ax yo', " he added, "wheer's th' other lass, as ud ha' had thepluck to do as mich?"

"I don't think there is another woman in the country who would have doneit, " said Mr. Havi-land smiling. "We shall agree in our opinion of MissBarholm, I see, Craddock, if we quarrel about everything else. "

Sammy took out his flowered bandanna and wiped his bald forehead. He wasat once mollified and encouraged. He felt that he was being treatedwith a kind of respect and consideration. Here was one of the gentry whoplaced himself on a friendly footing with him. Perhaps upon the wholehe should not find it so difficult to reconcile himself to his change ofposition after all. And being thus encouraged, a certain bold simplicitymade him address himself to Mr. Haviland not as a servant in prospectiveto a prospective master, but as man to man. 

"Th' fact is, " he said, "as I am na mich o' a lass's mon mysen, andI wunnot say as I ha' mich opinion o' woman foak i' general--they'reflighty yo' see--they're flighty; but I mun say as I wur tuk by thatlittle wench o' th' Parson's--I wur tuk by her. "

"She would be glad to hear it, I am sure, " with an irony so suave thatSammy proceeded with fresh gravity. 

"I mak' no doubt on't, " dogmatically. "I mak' no doubt on't i' th'world, but I dunnot know as th' flattery ud do her good. Sugar sop is nao'er digestible to th' best o' 'em. They ha' to be held a bit i' check, yo' see. But hoo's a wonderfu' little lass--_fur_ a lass, I mun admit. Seems a pity to ha' wasted so mich good lad metal on a slip o' awench, --does na it?"

"You think so? Well, that is a matter of opinion, you know. However--concerning the lodge-keeper's place. You understand what yourduties would be, I suppose?"

"Tendin' th' gates an' th' loike. Aye sir. Th' little lass towd me awabout it. Hoo is na one as misses owt. "

"So I see, " smiling again. "And you think you can perform them?"

"I wur thinkin' so. It did na stroike me as a mon need to be partic'larmuskylar to do th' reet thing by 'em. I think I could tackle 'em wi'outbreakin' down. "

After a brief discussion of the subject, it was agreed that Mr. Craddockshould be installed as keeper of the lodge the week following. 

"As to politics, " said Mr. Haviland, when his visitor rose to depart, "Ihear you are something of a politician, Craddock. "

"Summat o' one, sir, " answered Sammy, his evident satisfaction touchedwith a doubtful gravity. "Summat o' one. I ha' my opinions o' things i'gineral. "

"So I have been told; and they have made you rather unpopular among ourcounty people, per-haps?"

"I am na mich o' a favorite, " with satisfaction. 

"No, the fact is that until Miss Barholm came to me I had rather a badidea of you, Craddock. "

This looked somewhat serious, Craddock regarding it rather in the lightof a challenge. 

"I'd loike well enow to ha' yo' change it, " he said, "but my coat is nao' th' turnin' web. I mun ha' my say about things--gentry or no gentry. "And his wrinkled old visage expressed so crabbed a determination thatMr. Haviland laughed outright. 

"Oh! don't misunderstand me, " he said, "stick to your party, Craddock. We will try to agree, for Miss Barholm's sake. I will leave you to youropinion, and you will leave me to mine--even a Member of Parliamenthas a right to an opinion, you know, if he doesn't intrude it upon thepublic too much. "

Craddock went home in a mollified frame of mind. He felt that hehad gained his point and held his ground, and he respected himselfaccordingly. He felt too that his associates had additional right torespect him. It was their ground too, and he had held it for them aswell as for himself. He stopped at The Crown for his midday glass ofale; and his self-satisfaction was so evident that his friends observedit, and remarked among themselves that "th' owd lad wur pickin' up hiscrumbs a bit. "

"Yo're lookin' graidely to-day, Sammy, " said one. 

"I'm feelin' a trifle graidelier than I ha' done, " he answered, oracularly. "Things is lookin' up. "

"I'm main glad to hear it. Tell us as how. "

"Well, "--with studied indifference, --"it's noan so great luck i'comparison, but it's summat to be thankfu' fur to a mon as is down i'th' world. I've getten the lodge-keeper's place at Mr. Havi-land's. "

"Tha' nivver says! Who'd a' thowt it? How ivver did that coom about?"

"Friends i' coort, " with dignity. "Friends i' coort. Hond me that jugo' ale, Tummy. Havi-land's a mon o' discretion, if he is a Member o'Parlyment. We've had quoite a friendly chat this mornin' as we set i'th' loibery together. He is na so bad i' his pollytics after aw's saidan' done. He'll do, upo' th' whole. "

"Yo' stood up to him free enow, I warrant, " said Tummy. "Th' gentle folkdunnot often hear sich free 'speakin' as yo' gi' 'em, Sammy. "

"Well, I had to be a bit indypendent; it wur nat'ral. It would na ha'done to ha' turnt soft, if he _wur_ th' mester an' me th' mon. But he'sa mon o' sense, as I say, an' he wur civil enow, an' friendly enow. He'sgetten gumption to see as pollytics is pollytics. I'll tell yo' what, lads, I'm comin' to th' opinion as happen theer's more sense i' some o'th' gentry than we gi' em credit fur; they ha' not mich but book larnini' their heads, it's true, but they're noan so bad--some on 'em--ifyo're charytable wi' 'em. "

"Who was thy friend i' coort, Sammy?" was asked next. 

Sammy's fist went down upon the table with a force which made the mugsdance and rattle. 

"Now tha'rt comin' to the meat i' th' egg. " he said. "Who should thathink it wur 'at had th' good-will an' th' head to tak' th' business i'hond?"

"It ud be hard to say. "

"Why, it wur that little lass o' th' owd Parsen's again. Dom'd if shewunnot run aw Riggan i' a twelvemonth. I dunnot know wkeer she gettenher head-fillin' fro' unless she robbed th' owd Parson, an' left his nobstandin' empty. Happen that's what's up wi' th' owd chap. "

CHAPTER XXI - Derrick's Question

Derrick had had a great deal to think about of late. Affairs at themines had been troublesome, as usual, and he had been often irritatedby the stupidity of the men who were in authority over him. He began tofeel, moreover, that an almost impalpable barrier had sprung up betweenhimself and his nearest friend. When he came to face the matter, he wasobliged to acknowledge to himself that there were things he had keptfrom Grace, though it had been without any positive intention ofconcealment And, perhaps, being the sensitive fellow he had calledhim, Grace had felt that there was something behind his occasionalabstraction and silence, and had shrunk within himself, feeling a triflehurt at Derrick's want of frankness and confidence. 

Hardly a day passed in which he did not spend some short time in thesociety of his Pythias. He rarely passed his lodgings without droppingin, and, to-night, he turned in on his way from the office, and fellupon Grace hard at work over a volume of theology. 

"Lay your book aside, " he said to him. "I want to gossip this evening, old fellow. "

Grace closed his book and came to his usual seat, smilingaffectionately. There was a suggestion of feminine affectionateness inhis bearing toward his friend. 

"Gossip, " he remarked. "The word gos-sip----

"Oh, " put in Derrick, "it's a woman's word; but I am in a womanish sortof humor. I am going to be--I suppose, one might say--confidential. "

The Reverend Paul reddened a little but as Derrick rather avoidedlooking at him he did not observe the fact. 

"Grace, " he said, after a silence, "I have a sort of confession to make. I am in a difficulty, and I rather blame myself for not having come toyou before. "

"Don't blame yourself, " said the Curate, faintly. "You--you are not toblame. "

Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded so significantof some previous knowledge of his trouble, that he was taken aback. Hecould not quite account for it. 

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible that you have guessed it already?"

"I have thought so--sometimes I have thought so--though I feel as if Iought almost to ask your pardon for going so far. "

Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's trouble meant hisfriend's honor and regard for himself. It was for his sake that Derrickwas hesitating on the brink of a happy love--unselfishly fearing forhim. He knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw how under thecircumstances, it might involve him. Loving Anice Barholm with the fullstrength of a strong nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrinkfrom his prospect of success with the woman his friend had failed towin. 

Derrick flung himself back in his chair with a sigh. He was thinking, with secret irritation, that he must have felt even more than he hadacknowledged to himself since he had in all unconsciousness, confessedso much. 

"You have saved me the trouble of putting into words a feeling I havenot words to explain, " he said. "Perhaps that is the reason why I havenot spoken openly before. Grace, "--abruptly, --"I have fancied there wasa cloud between us. "

"Between us!" said Grace, eagerly and warmly. "No, no! That was a poorfancy indeed; I could not bear that. "

"Nor I, " impetuously. "But I cannot be explicit even now, Grace--evenmy thoughts are not explicit. I have been bewildered and--yes, amazed--amazed at finding that I had gone so far without knowing it. Surely there never was a passion--if it is really a passion--that had solittle to feed upon. "

"So little!" echoed Grace. 

Derrick got up and began to walk across the floor. 

"I have nothing--nothing, and I am beset on every side. "

There was something extraordinary in the blindness of a man with anabsorbing passion. Absorbed by his passion for one woman, Grace wasblind to the greatest of inconsistencies in his friend's speech andmanner. Absorbed in his passion for another woman, Derrick forgot forthe hour everything concerning his friend's love for Anice Barholm. 

Suddenly he paused in his career across the room. 

"Grace, " he said, "I cannot trust myself; but I can trust you, I cannotbe unselfish in this--you can. Tell me what I am to do--answer methis question, though God knows, it would be a hard one for any man toanswer. Perhaps I ought not to ask it--perhaps I ought to have decisionenough to answer it myself without troubling you. But how can I? And youwho are so true to yourself and to me in other things, will be true inthis I know. This feeling is stronger than all else--so strong that Ihave feared and failed to comprehend it. I had not even thought of ituntil it came upon me with fearful force, and I am conscious that it hasnot reached its height yet. It is not an ignoble pas' sion, I know. Howcould a passion for such a creature be ignoble? And yet again, therehave been times when I have felt that perhaps it was best to struggleagainst it. I am beset on every side, as I have said, and I appeal toyou. Ought love to be stronger than all else? I used to tell myself so, before it came upon me--and now I can only wonder at myself and trembleto find that I have grown weak. "

God knows it was a hard question he had asked of the man who loved him;but this man did not hesitate to answer it as freely as if he had had nothought that he was signing the death-warrant of all hopes for himself. Grace went to him and laid a hand upon his broad shoulder. 

"Come, sit down and I will tell you, " he said, with a pallid face. 

Derrick obeyed his gentle touch with a faint smile. 

"I am too fiery and tempestuous, and you want to cool me, " he said. "Youare as gentle as a woman, Grace. "

The Curate standing up before him, a slight, not at all heroic figure inhis well worn, almost threadbare garments, smiled in return. 

"I want to answer your question, " he said, "and my answer is this:When a man loves a woman wholly, truly, purely, and to her highesthonor, --such a love is the highest and noblest thing in this world, and nothing should lead to its sacrifice, --no ambition, no hope, nofriendship. "

CHAPTER XXII - Master Landsell's Son

"I dunnot know what to mak' on her, " Joan said to Anice, speaking ofLiz. "Sometimes she is i' sich sperrits that she's fairly flighty, an'then agen, she's aw fretted an' crossed with ivvery-thing. Th' choildseems to worrit her to death. "

"That lass o' Lowrie's has made a bad bargain, i' takin' up wi' thatwench, " said a townswoman to Grace. "She's noan one o' th' soart as'll keep straight. She's as shallow as a brook i' midsummer. What's shedoin' leavin' th' young un to Joan, and gaddin' about wi' ribbons i' herbonnet? Some lasses would na ha' th' heart to show theirsens. "

The truth was that the poor weak child was struggling feebly in deepwater again. She had not thought of danger. She had only been tired ofthe monotony of her existence, and had longed for a change. If she hadseen the end she would have shrunk from it before she had taken herfirst step. She wanted no more trouble and shame, she only wantedvariety and excitement. 

She was going down a by-lane leading to the Maxy's cottage, and washurrying through the twilight, when she brushed against a man who waslounging carelessly along the path, smoking a cigar, and evidentlyenjoying the balmy coolness of the summer evening. It was just lightenough for her to see that this person was well-dressed, and young, and with a certain lazily graceful way of moving, and it was just lightenough for the man to see that the half-frightened face she lifted waspretty and youthful. But, having seen this much, he must surely haverecognized more, for he made a quick backward step. "Liz!" he said. "Why, Liz, my girl!" And Liz stood still. She stood still, because, forthe moment, she lost the power of motion. Her heart gave a great wildleap, and, in a minute more, she was trembling all over with a strange, dreadful emotion. It seemed as if long, terrible months were blottedout, and she was looking into her cruel lover's face, as she had lookedat it last. It was the man who had brought her to her greatest happinessand her deepest pain and misery. She could not speak at first; butsoon she broke into a passion of tears. It evidently made the young manuncomfortable--perhaps it touched him a little. Ralph Landsell's naturewas not unlike Liz's own. He was invariably swayed by the passingcircumstance, --only, perhaps, he was a trifle more easily moved by anevil impulse than a good one. The beauty of the girl's tearful face, too, overbalanced his first feeling of irritation at seeing her andfinding that he was in a difficult position. Then he did not want herto run away and per-haps betray him in her agitation, so he put out hishand and laid it on her shoulder. 

"Hush, " he said. "Don't cry. What a poor little goose you are. Somebodywill hear you. "

The girl made an effort to free herself from his detaining hand, but itwas useless. Light as his grasp was, it held her. 

"Let me a-be, " she cried, sobbing petulantly. "Yo' ha' no reet to howdme. Yo' were ready enow to let me go when--when I wur i' trouble. "

"Trouble!" he repeated after her. "Wasn't I in trouble, too? You don'tmean to say you did not know what a mess I was in? I'll own it lookedrather shabby, Liz, but I was obliged to bolt as I did. I hadn't time tostay and explain. The governor was down on us, and there'd have been anawful row. Don't be hard on a fellow, Lizzie. You're--you're too nice alittle girl to be hard on a fellow. "

But Liz would not listen. 

"Yo' went away an' left me wi'out a word, " she said; "yo' went away an'left me to tak' care o' mysen when I could na do it, an' had na strengthto howd up agen th' world. I wur turned out o' house an' home, an' if ithad na been fur th' hospytal, I might ha' deed i' th' street. Let me go. I dunnot want to ha' awt to do wi' yo'. I nivver wanted to see yoreface agen. Leave me a-be. It's ower now, an' I dun-not want to get intotrouble agen. "

He drew his hand away, biting his lip and frowning boyishly. He had beenas fond of Liz as such a man could be. But she had been a trouble to himin the end, and he had barely escaped, through his cowardly flight, frombeing openly disgraced and visited by his father's wrath. 

"If you had not gone away in such a hurry, you would have found that Idid not mean to treat you so badly after all, " he said. "I wrote to youand sent you money, and told you why I was obliged to leave you for thetime, but you were gone, and the letter was returned to me. I was not somuch to blame. "

"Th' blame did na fa' on yo', " said Liz. "I tell yo' I wur turnt out, but--it--it does na matter now, " with a sob. 

Now that she was out of his reach, he discovered that she had not lostall her old attractions for him. She was prettier than ever, --the shawlhad slipped from her curly hair, the tears in her eyes made themlook large and soft, and gave her face an expression of most pathetichelplessness, --and he really felt that he would like to defend, if notclear himself. So, when she made a movement as if to leave him, he waspositively anxious to detain her. 

"You are not going?" he said. "You won't leave a fellow in this way, Lizzie?"

The old tone, half caressing, half reproachful, was harder for the girlto withstand than a stronger will could comprehend. It brought back somuch to her, --those first bright days, her poor, brief little reign, herchildish pleasures, his professed love for her, all her lost delight. If she had been deliberately bad, she would have given way that instant, knowing that she was trifling on the brink of sin once more. But she wasnot bad, only emotional, weak and wavering. The tone held her one momentand then she burst into fresh tears. 

"I wunnot listen to yo', " she cried. "I wunnot listen to yo-. Iwunnot--I wunnot, " and before he had time to utter another word, shehad turned and fled down the lane back toward Joan's cottage, like somehunted creature fleeing for life. 

Joan, sitting alone, rose in alarm, when she burst open the door andrushed in. She was quivering from head to foot, panting for breath, andthe tears were wet upon her cheeks. 

"What is it?" cried Joan. "Lizzie, my lass, what ails yo'?"

She threw herself down upon the floor and hid her face in the folds ofJoan's dress. 

"I--ha'--I ha' seed a ghost, or--summat, " she panted and whimpered. "I--I met summat as feart me. "

"Let me go and look what it wur, " said Joan. "Was it i' th' lane? Thaart tremblin' aw o'er, Lizzie. "

But Liz only clung to her more closely. 

"Nay--nay, " she protested. "Tha shall na go. I'm feart to beleft--an'--an' I dunnot want yo' to go. Dunnot go, Joan, dunnot. "

And Joan was fain to remain. 

She did not go out into the village for several days after this, Joanobserved. She stayed at home and did not even leave the cottage. Shewas not like herself, either. Up to that time she had seemed to beforgetting her trouble, and gradually slipping back into the enjoymentsshe had known before she had gone away. Now a cloud seemed to be uponher. She was restless and nervous, or listless and unhappy. She waseasily startled, and now and then Joan fancied that she was expectingsomething unusual to happen. She lost color and appetite, and thechild's presence troubled her more than usual. Once, when it set up asudden cry, she started, and the next moment burst into tears. 

"Why, Liz!" said Joan, almost tenderly. "Yo' mun be ailin', or yo'hannot getten o'er yo're fright yet Yo're not yoresen at aw. What asimple little lass yo' are to be feart by a boggart i' that way. "

"I dunnot know what's the matter wi' me, " said Liz, "I dunnot feel reet, somehow. Happen I shall get o'er it i' toime. "

But though she recovered herself somewhat, she was not the same girlagain. And this change in her it was that made Joan open her heart toAnice. She saw that something was wrong, and noted a new influence atwork even after the girl began to go out again and resume her visitsto her acquaintances. Then, alternating with fretful listlessness, weretremulous high spirits and feverish fits of gayety. 

There came a day, however, when Joan gained a clue to the meaning ofthis change, though never from her first recognition of it until the enddid she comprehend it fully. Perhaps she was wholly unconscious of whatnarrower natures experience. Then, too, she had little opportunity forhearing gossip. She had no visitors, and she was kept much at home withthe child, who was not healthy, and who, during the summer months, wasconstantly feeble and ailing. 

Grace, hearing nothing more after the first hint of suspicion, was sofar relieved that he thought it best to spare Joan the pain of beingstung by it. 

But there came a piece of news to Joan that troubled her. 

"Theer's a young sprig o' one o' th' managers stayin' at th' 'Queen'sArms, '" remarked a pit woman one morning. "He's a foine young chap, too--dresses up loike a tailor's dummy, an' looks as if he'd steppedreet square out o' a bandbox. He's a son o' owd Landsell's. "

Joan stopped a moment at her work. 

"Are yo' sure o' that?" she asked, anxiously. 

"Sure he's Mester Landsell's son? Aye, to be 'sure it's him. My mestertowd me hissen. "

This was Liz's trouble, then. 

At noon Joan went home full of self-reproach because sometimes herpatience had failed her. Liz looked up with traces of tears in her eyes, when Joan came in. Joan did not hesitate. She only thought of giving hercomfort. She went and sat down in a chair near by--she drew the curlyhead down upon her lap, and laid her hand on it caressingly. 

"Lizzie, lass, " she said; "yo' need na ha' been afeard to tell me. "

There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then stillness. 

"I heard about it to-day, " Joan went on, "an' I did na wonder as yo' wurfull o' trouble. It brings it back, Liz, I dare say. "

The pant became a sob--the sob broke into a low cry. 

"Oh, Joan! Joan! dunnot blame me--dunnot. It wur na my fault as he coom, an'--an' I canna bear it. "

Even then Joan had no suspicion. To her mind it was quite natural thatsuch a cry of pain should be wrung from the weak heart. Her hand lostits steadiness as she touched the soft, tangled hair more tenderly thanbefore. 

"He wur th' ghost as yo' seed i' th' lane, " she said. "Wur na he?"

"Aye, " wept Liz, "he wur, an' I dare na tell yo'. It seemit loike ittuk away my breath, an' aw my heart owt o' me. Nivver yo' blame me, Joan--nivver yo' be hard on me--ivverything else is hard enow. I thowt Iwur safe wi' yo'--I did fur sure. "

"An' yo' _are_ safe, " Joan answered. "Dost tha' think I would turn agenthee? Nay, lass; tha'rt as safe as th' choild is, when I hold it i' mybreast. I ha' a pain o' my own, Liz, as 'll nivver heal, an' I'd loiketo know as I'd held out my hond to them as theer is healin' fur. I'dthank God fur th' chance--poor lass--poor lass--poor lass!" And she bentdown and kissed her again and again. 

CHAPTER XXIII - "Cannybles"

The night school gained ground steadily. The number of scholars wasconstantly on the increase, so much so, indeed, that Grace had his handsinconveniently full. 

"They have dull natures, these people, " said the Reverend Harold;"and in the rare cases where they are not dull, they are stubborn. Absolutely, I find it quite trying to face them at times, and it is notmy fortune to find it difficult to reach people, as a rule. They seem tohave made up their minds beforehand to resent what I am going to say. It is most unpleasant. Grace has been working among them so long that, I suppose, they are used to his methods; he has learned to place himselfon a level with them, so to speak. I notice they listen to, and seem tounderstand him. The fact is, I have an idea that that sort of thing isGrace's forte. He is not a brilliant fellow, and will never make anyparticular mark, but he has an odd perseverance which carries him alongwith a certain class. Riggan suits him, I think. He has dropped intothe right groove. "

Jud Bates and "th' best tarrier i' Riggan" were among the most faithfulattendants. The lad's fancy for Anice had extended to Grace. Grace'sfriendly toleration of Nib had done much for him. Nib always appearedwith his master, and his manner was as composed and decorous as if ratswere subjects foreign to his meditations. His part it was to lie atJud's feet, his nose between his paws, his eyes twinkling sagaciouslybehind his shaggy eyebrows, while occasionally, as a token of approval, he wagged his tail. Once or twice, during a fitful slumber, he had beenknown to give vent to his feelings in a sharp bark, but he never failedto awaken immediately, with every appearance of the deepest abasementand confusion at the unconscious transgression. 

During a visit to the Rectory one day, Jud's eyes fell upon a book whichlay on Anice's table. It was full of pictures--illustrations depictingthe adventures and vicissitudes of a fortunate unfortunate, whose desertisland has been the paradise of thousands; whose goat-skin habilimentshave been more worthy of envy than kingly purple; whose hairy cap hasbeen more significant of monarchy than any crown. For the man who worethese savage garments has reigned supreme in realms of romance, knownonly in their first beauty to boyhood's ecstatic belief. 

Jud put out his hand, and drawing the gold and crimson snare toward him, opened it. When Anice came into the room she found him poring over it. His ragged cap lay with Nib, at his feet, his face was in a glow, hishair was pushed straight up on his head, both elbows were resting on thetable. He was spelling his way laboriously, but excitedly, through thestory of the foot-print on the sand. Anice waited a moment, and thenspoke:

"Jud, " she said, "when you can read I will give you 'Robinson Crusoe. '"

In less than six months she was called upon to redeem her promise. 

This occurred a few weeks after Craddock had been established at thelodge at the Haviland gates. The day Anice gave Jud his well-earnedreward, she had a package to send to Mrs. Craddock, and when the boycame for the book, she employed him as a messenger to the park. 

"If you will take these things to Mrs. Craddock, Jud, I shall be muchobliged, " she said; "and please tell her that I will drive out to seeher to-morrow. "

Jud accepted the mission readily. With Nib at his heels and "RobinsonCrusoe" under his arm, three miles were a trivial matter. He trudgedoff, whistling with keen delight. As he went along he could fortifyhimself with an occasional glance at the hero and his man Friday. Whatwould he not have sacrificed at the prospect of being cast with Nib upona desert island?

"Owd Sammy" sat near the chimney-corner smoking his pipe, and makingsevere mental comments upon the conduct of Parliament, then in session, of whose erratic proceedings he was reading an account in a small buthighly seasoned newspaper. Sammy shook his head ominously over thepeppery reports, but feeling it as well to reserve his opinions fora select audience at The Crown, allowed Mrs. Craddock to perform herhousehold tasks unmolested. 

Hearing Jud at the door, he turned his head. 

"It's yo', is it?" he said. "Tha con coom in. What's browten?"

"Summat fur th' missis fro' th' Rectory, " Jud answered, producing hisparcel; "Miss Anice sent me wi' it. "

"Tak' it to th' owd lass, then, " said Sammy. "Tak' it to her. Tha'ltfind her in th' back kitchen. "

Having done as he was bidden, Jud came back again to the front room. Mrs. Craddock had hospitably provided him with a huge sandwich of breadand cheese, and Nib followed him with expectant eyes. 

"Sit thee down, lad, " said Sammy, condescendingly. "Sit thee down, tha'st getten a walk both afore and behind thee. What book 'st gettenunder thy arm?"

Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exultation. 

"It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is, " he answered. 

Sammy shook his head dubiously. 

"Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noan scripter, is he?"

"No, " said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly; "he is na. "

"Hond him over, an' let's ha' a look at him. "

Jud advanced. 

"Theer's picters in it, " he commented eagerly. "Theer's one at th'front. That theer un, " pointing to the frontispiece, "that theer's him. "

Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then held the book atarm's length, regarding Robinson's goat-skin habiliments over the rimsof his spectacles. 

"Well, I'm dom'd, " he exclaimed. "I'm dom'd, if I would na loike to seethat chap i' Riggan! What's th' felly getten on?"

"He's dressed i' goat-skins. He wur cast upon a desert island, an' hadna owt else to wear. "

"I thowt he must ha' been reduced i' circumstances, or he'd nivver ha'turnt out i' that rig less he thowt more o' comfort than appearances. What wur he doin' a-casting hissen on a desert island? Wur he reet i'th' upper story?"

"He wur shipwrecked, " triumphantly. "Th' sea drifted him to th' shore, an' he built hissen a hut, an' gettin' goats an' birds, an'--an' awsorts--an'--it's the graideliest book tha ivver seed. Miss Anice gave itme. "

"Has she read it hersen?"

"Aye, it wur her as tellt me most on it. "

Sammy turned the volume over, and looked at the back of it, at the edgesof the leaves, at the gilt-lettered title. 

"I would na be surprised, " he observed with oracular amiability. "Iwould na be surprised--if that's th' case--as theer's summat in it. "

"That as I've towd thee is nowt to th' rest on it, " answered Jud inenthusiasm. "Theer's a mon ca'd Friday, an' a lot o' fellys as eats eachother--cannybles they ca' 'em----"

"Look tha here, " interposed Craddock, his curiosity and interest gettingthe better of him. "Sit thee down and read a bit. That's something as Inivver heard on--cannybles an' th' loike. Pick thee th' place, an' let'shear summat about th' cannybles if tha has na th' toime to do no more. "

Jud needed no second invitation. Sharing the general opinion that "OwdSammy" was a man of mark, he could not help feeling that Crusoe wascomplimented by his attention. He picked out his place, as his hearerhad advised him, and plunged into the details of the cannibal feast withpride and determination. Though his elocution may have been of a stylepeculiar to beginners and his pronunciation occasionally startling inits originality, still Sammy gathered the gist of the story. He puffedat his pipe so furiously that the foreign gentleman's turbaned head wasemptied with amazing rapidity, and it was necessary to refill it two orthree times; he rubbed his corduroy knees with both hands, occasionallyhe slapped one of them in the intensity of his interest, and when Judstopped he could only express himself in his usual emphatic formula--

"Well, I am dom'd. An' tha says, as th' chap's name wur Robyson?"

"Aye, Robyson Crusoe. "

"Well, I mun say, as I'd ha' loike to ha' knowed him. I did know a monby th' name o' Robyson onct, but it could na ha' been him, fur he wur namich o' a chap. If he'd a bin cast o' a desert island, he would na hadth' gumption to do aw that theer--Jem Robyson could na. It could naha' been him--an' besides, he could na ha' writ it out, as that theerfelly's done. "

There was a pause, in which Craddock held his pipe in his handreflectively--shaking his head once more. 

"Cannybles an' th' loike too, " he said. "Theer's a soight o' things as amon does na hear on. Why, _I_ nivver heard o' cannybles mysen, an' Iam na considert ignorant by th' most o' foak. " Then, as Jud rose to go, "Art tha fur goin'?" he asked. "Weil, I mun say as I'd loike to hearsummat more about Robyson; but, if tha mun go, tha mun, I suppose. Sithee here, could tha coom again an' bring him wi' thee?"

"I mowt; I dunna moind the walk. "

"Then thee do it, " getting up to accompany him to the gates. "An' I'llgi'e thee a copper now an' then to pay thee. Theer's summat i' a book o'that soart. Coom thee again as soon as tha con, an' we'll go on wi' thecannybles. "

"What's th' lad been readin' to thee, Sammy?" asked Mrs. Craddockentering the room, after Jud had taken his departure. 

"A bit o' litterytoor. I dunnot know as tha'd know what th' book wur, if I towd thee. Tha nivver wur mich o' a hand at litterytoor. He wurreadin' Robyson Crusoe. "

"Not a tract, sure-ly?"

"Nay, that it wur na! It wur th' dairy o' a mon who wur cast upo' adesert island 'i th' midst o' cannybles. "

"The dairy?"

"Nay, lass, nay, " testily, "not i' th' sense yo' mean. Th' dairy wur o'th' litterairy soart. He wur a litterairy mon. "

"Cannybles an' th' loike, " Sammy said to him-self several times duringthe evening. "Cannybles an' th' loike. Theer's a power o' things i' th'universe. "

He took his pipe after supper and went out for a stroll. Mental activitymade him restless. The night was a bright one. A yellow harvest moon wasrising slowly above the tree-tops, and casting a mellow light upon theroad stretching out before him. He passed through the gates and down theroad at a leisurely pace, and had walked a hundred yards or so, whenhe caught sight of two figures approaching him--a girl and a man, soabsorbed that they evidently had not noticed him. The girl was of lightand youthful figure, and the little old red shawl she wore over herhead was pushed aside, and showed curly hair lying upon her brow. It wasplain that she was uneasy or frightened, for, as soon as she was nearenough, her voice reached him in a tone of frightened protest. 

"Oh, dunnot!" she was saying, "I conna bear it I dunnot want to hearyo', an'--an' I will na. Yo' moight ha' let me be. I dunnot believe yo'. Let me go whoam. I'll nivver coom again, " and then she broke out crying. 

Craddock looked after them as they passed from sight. 

"Theer's trouble there, " he said, eagerly. "A working lass, an' a mon i'gentlemen's cloas. Dom sich loike chaps, say I. What would they think ifworkin' men ud coom meddlin' wi' theer lasses? I wish I'd had more toimeto see th' wench's face. "

CHAPTER XXIV - Dan Lowrie's Return

Not a pleasant road to travel at any time--the high road to Riggan, itwas certainly at its worst to-night. 

Between twelve and one o'clock, the rain which had been pouring downsteadily with true English pertinacity for two days, was graduallypassing into a drizzle still more unpleasant, --a drizzle that soakedinto the already soaked clay, that made the mud more slippery, thatpenetrated a man's clothing and beat softly but irritatingly against hisface, and dripped from his hair and hat down upon his neck, however wellhe might imagine himself protected by his outside wrappings. But, if hewas a common traveller--a rough tramp or laborer, who was not protectedfrom it at all, it could not fail to annoy him still more, andconsequently to affect his temper. 

At the hour I have named, such a traveller was making his way throughthe mire and drizzle toward Riggan, --a tramp in mud-splashed corduroyand with the regulation handkerchief bundle tied to the thick stickwhich he carried over his shoulder. 

"Dom th' rain;--dom th' road, " he said. 

It was not alone the state of the weather that put him out of humor. 

"Th' lass, " he went on. "Dom her handsome face. Goin' agin achap--workin' agin him, an' settin' hersen i' his road. Blast me, "grinding his teeth--"Blast me if I dunnot ha' it out wi' her!"

So cursing, and alternating his curses with raging silence, he trudgedon his way until four o'clock, when he was in sight of the cottage uponthe Knoll Road--the cottage where Joan and Liz lay asleep upon theirpoor bed, with the child between them. 

Joan had not been asleep long. The child had been unusually fretful, andhad kept her awake. So she was the more easily awakened from her firstlight and uneasy slumber by a knock on the door. Hearing it, she startedup and listened. 

"Who is it?" she asked in a voice too low to disturb the sleepers, butdistinct enough to reach Lowrie's hearing. 

"Get thee up an' oppen th' door, " was the answer. "I want thee. "

She knew there was something wrong. She had not responded to his summonsfor so many years without learning what each tone meant But she did nothesitate. 

When she had hastily thrown on some clothing, she opened the door andstood before him. 

"I did not expect to see yo' to-neet, " she said, quietly. 

"Happen not, " he replied. "Coom out here. I ha' summat to say to yo'. "

"Yo' wunnot come in?" she asked. 

"Nay. What I ha' to say mowt waken th' young un. "

She stepped out without another word, and closed the door quietly behindher. 

There was the faintest possible light in the sky, the first tint ofdawn, and it showed even to his brutal eyes all the beauty of her faceand figure as she stood motionless, the dripping rain falling upon her;there was so little suggestion of fear about her that he was roused tofresh anger. 

"Dom yo'!" he broke forth. "Do yo' know as I've fun yo' out?"

She did not profess not to understand him, but she did not stir an inch. 

"I did na know before, " was her reply. 

"Yo' thowt as I wur to be stopped, did yo'? Yo' thowt as yo' could keepquiet an' stond i' my way, an' houd me back till I'd forgetten? Yo're abrave wench! Nivver moind how I fun yo' out, an' seed how it wur--I'vedone it, that's enow fur yo'; an' now I've coom to ha' a few words wi'yo' and settle matters. I coom here to-neet a purpose, an' this is whatI've getten to say. Yo're stubborn enow, but yo' canna stop me. That'sone thing I ha' to tell yo', an here's another. Yo're hard enow, an'yo're wise enow, but yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' fancyas a hundred years ud mak' me forget what I ha' made up my moind to, an'yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' put yoursen in my road. An'here's another yet, " clinching his fist. "If it wur murder, as I wurgoin' to do--not as I say it is--but if it wur murder itsen an' yo' wuri' my way, theer mowt be two blows struck i'stead o' one--theer mowt betwo murders done--an' I wunnot say which ud coom first--fur I'll do whatI've set my moind to, if I'm dom'd to hell fur it!"

She did not move nor speak. Perhaps because of her immobility he brokeout again. 

"What!" he cried. "_Yo'_ hangin' on to gentlemen, an' doggin' 'em, an'draggin' yoursen thro' th' dark an' mire to save 'em fro' havin' theerprutty faces hurt, an' getten theer dues! _Yo'_ creepin' behind a monas cares no more fur yo' than he does for th' dirt at his feet, an' aslaughs, ten to one, to know as yo're ready to be picked up or throweddown at his pleasure! _Yo'_ watchin' i' th' shade o' trees an' stoppin'a mon by neet as would na stop to speak to yo' by day. Dom yo'! theerwere na a mon i' Riggan as dare touch yo' wi' a yard-stick until thischap coom. "

"I've listened to yo', " she said. "Will yo' listen to me?"

He replied with another oath, and she continued as if it had been anassent. 

"Theer's a few o' them words as yo've spoken as is na true, but theer'sothers as is. It's true as I ha' set mysen to watch, an' it's true as Imean to do it again. If it's nowt but simple harm yo' mean, yo' shannado it; if it's murder yo' mean--an' I dunnot trust yo' as it is na--ifit's murder yo' mean, theer's yo' an' me for it before it's done; an' iftheer's deathly blows struck, the first shall fa' on _me_. Theer!" andshe struck herself upon her breast. "If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' myloife--if I ivver feared yo' as choild or woman, dunnot believe me now. "

"Yo' mean that?" he said. 

"Yo' know whether I mean it or not, " she answered. 

"Aye!" he said. "I'm dom'd if yo' dunnot, yo' she-devil, an' bein' asthat's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I dunnot mean summat too, " andhe raised his hand and gave her a blow that felled her to the ground;then he turned away, cursing as he went. 

She uttered no cry of appeal or dread, and Liz and the child slept oninside, as quietly as before. It was the light-falling rain and the coolmorning air that roused her. She came to herself at last, feeling sickand dizzy, and conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple. She managed to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the roughgate-post. She had borne such blows before, but she never felt herhumiliation so bitterly as she did at this moment. She laid her browupon her hand, which rested on the gate, and broke into heavy sobs. 

"I shall bear th' mark for mony a day, " she said. "I mun hide mysenaway. I could na bear fur _him_ to see it, even tho' I getten it fur hissake. "

CHAPTER XXV - The Old Danger

It had been some time since Derrick on his nightly walks homeward hadbeen conscious of the presence of the silent figure; but the very nightafter the occurrence narrated in the last chapter, he was startled athis first turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan. 

There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent presence seemedonly to widen the distance Fate had placed between them. She was readyto shield him from danger, but she held herself apart from him evenin doing so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature of adifferent world, --a world so separated from his own that nothing couldever bridge the gulf between them. 

To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to speak to thegirl. He had forborne for her sake before, but to-night he was in oneof those frames of mind in which a man is selfish, and is apt to let hiscourse be regulated by his impulse. Why should he not speak, after all?If there was danger for him there was danger for her, and it was absurdthat he should not show her that he was not afraid. Why should sheinterpose her single strength between himself and the vengeance of a manof whom he had had the best in their only encounter? As soon as theyhad reached the more unfrequented part of the road, he wheeled roundsuddenly, and spoke. 

"Joan, " he said. 

He saw that she paused and hesitated, and he made up his mind morestrongly. He took a few impetuous steps toward her, and seeing this, sheaddressed him hurriedly. 

"Dunnot stop, " she said. "If--if yo' want to speak to me, I'll go alongwi' yo'. "

"You think I'm in danger?"

He could not see her face, but her voice told him that her usual steadycomposure was shaken--it was almost like the voice of another woman. 

"Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yo're loife. "

"The old danger?"

"Th' old danger, as is worse to be feared now than ivver. "

"And you!" he broke out. "_You_ interpose yourself between that dangerand me!"

His fire seemed to communicate itself to her. 

"Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm, " she said, "an' willbe done i' coward's fashion--it is na a harm as will be done yo' wi'fair warnin', i' dayleet, an' face to face. If it wur, I should nafear--but th' way it is, I say it shanna be done--it shanna, if I deefur it!" Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to itsfirst tremor. "It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. Yo' munnotjudge o' me as yo' judge o' other lasses. What mowtn't be reet furother lasses to do, is reet enow fur me. It has na been left to me to belass-loike, an' feart, an'--an' modest, " and she drew her breath hard, as if she was forced to check herself. 

"It has been left to you, " he burst forth, "it has been left to you tostand higher in my eyes than any other woman God ever made. "

He could not have controlled himself. And yet, when he had said this, his heart leaped for fear he might have wounded her or given her a falseimpression. But strange to say, it proved this time that he had no needfor fear. 

There was a moment's silence, and then she answered low. 

"Thank yo'!"

They had gone some yards together, before he recovered himselfsufficiently to remember what he had meant to say to her. 

"I wanted to tell you, " he said, "that I do not think any--enemy Ihave, can take me at any very great disadvantage. I am--I have preparedmyself. "

She shuddered. 

"Yo' carry--summat?"

"Don't misunderstand me, " he said quickly. "I shall not use any weaponrashly. It is to be employed more as a means of warning and alarm thananything else. Rigganites do not like firearms, and they are not used tothem. I only tell you this, because I cannot bear that you should exposeyourself unnecessarily. "

There was that in his manner which moved her as his light touch haddone that first night of their meeting, when he had bound up her woundedtemple with his handkerchief. It was that her womanhood--her hardlyused womanhood, of which she had herself thought with such patheticscorn--was always before him, and was even a stronger power with himthan her marvellous beauty. 

She remembered the fresh bruise upon her brow, and felt its throb withless of shame, because she bore it for his sake. 

"Promise me one thing, " he went on. "And do not think me ungracious inasking it of you--promise me that you will not come out again throughany fear of danger for me, unless it is a greater one than threatens menow and one I am unprepared to meet. "

"I conna, " she answered firmly. "I conna promise yo'. Yo' mun let me doas I ha' done fur th' sake o' my own peace. "

She made no further explanation, and he could not persuade her to alterher determination. In fact, he was led to see at last, that there wasmore behind than she had the will or power to reveal to him; somethingin her reticence silenced him. 

"Yo' dunnot know what _I_ do, " she said before they parted. "An'happen yo' would na quoite understand it if yo' did. I dunnot do thingslightly, --I ha' no reason to, --an' I ha' set my moind on seein' that th'harm as has been brewin' fur long enow, shanna reach wheer it's aimed. I mun ha' my way. Dunnot ask me to gi'e it up. Let me do as I ha' beendoin' fur th' sake o' mysen, if fur no one else. "

The truth which he could not reach, and would not have reached if he hadtalked to her till doomsday, was that she was right in saying that shecould not give it up. This woman had made no inconsequent boast whenshe told her father that if deadly blows fell, they must fall first uponherself. She was used to blows, she could bear them, she was fearlessbefore them, --but she could not have borne to sit at home, under anypossibility of wrong being done to this man. God knows what heavysadness had worn her soul, through the months in which she had neverfor a moment flinched from the knowledge that a whole world laybetween herself and him. God knows how she had struggled against theunconquerable tide of feeling as it crept slowly upon her, refusing tobe stemmed and threatening to overwhelm her in its remorseless waves. She was only left endurance--yet even in this there was a gladness whichshe had in nothing else. She could never meet him as a happier womanmight, but she could do for him what other women could not do--she couldbrave darkness and danger, she could watch over him, if need be; if theworst came to the worst, she could interpose herself between him andviolence, or death itself. 

But of all this, Fergus Derrick suspected nothing. He only knew thatwhile she had not misinterpreted his appeal, some reason of her own heldher firm. 

CHAPTER XXVI - The Package Returned

As Joan turned the corner of a lane leading to the high road, she foundherself awkwardly trying to pass a man who confronted her--a youngfellow far too elegant and well-dressed to be a Rigganite. 

"Beg pardon!" he said abruptly, as if he were not in the best of humors. And then she recognized him. 

"It's Mester Ralph Landsell, " she said to herself as she went on. "Whatis he doin' here?"

But before she had finished speaking, she started at the sight of afigure hurrying on before her, --Liz herself, who had evidently justparted from her lover, and was walking rapidly homeward. 

It was a shock to Joan, though she did not suspect the whole truth. She had trusted the girl completely; she had never interfered with heroutgoing or incoming; she had been generously lenient toward her onevery point, and her pang at finding herself deceived was keen. Hersudden discovery of the subterfuge filled her with alarm. 

What was the meaning of it? Surely it could not mean that this man wasdigging fresh pitfalls for the poor straying feet. She could not believethis, --she could only shudder as the ominous thought suggested itself. And Liz--nay, even Liz could not be weak enough to trifle with dangeragain. 

But it was Liz who was hurrying on before her, and who was walking sofast that both were breathless when Joan reached her side and laid adetaining hand upon her shoulder. 

"Liz, " she said, "are yo' afeard o' me?"

Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. There was a tonein the voice she had never heard before, a reproach in Joan's eyesbefore which she faltered. 

"I--did na know it wur yo', " she said, almost peevishly. "What furshould I be afeard o' yo'?"

Joan's hand dropped. 

"Yo' know best, " she answered. "I did na say yo' wur. "

Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in nervousprotest. 

"I dunnot see why I should be, though to be sure it's enow to fearone to be followed i' this way. Canna I go out fur a minnitwi'out--wi'out--"

"Nay, lass, " Joan interrupted, "that's wild talk. "

Liz began to whimper. 

"Th' choild wur asleep, " she said, "an' it wur so lonesome i' th' house. Theer wur no harm i' comin' out. "

"I hope to God theer wur na, " exclaimed Joan. "I'd rayther see thy deadface lyin' by th' little un's on th' pillow than think as theer wur. Yo'know what I mean, Liz. Yo' know I could na ha' caught up wi' yo'wi'out passin' thot mon theer, --th' mon as yo' ha' been meetin' on th'sly, --God knows why, lass, fur I canna see, unless yo' want to fa' backto shame an' ruin. "

They were at home by this time, and she opened the door to let the girlwalk in before her. 

"Get thee inside, Liz, " she said. "I mun hear what tha has to say, fur Iconna rest i' fear for thee. I am na angered, fur I pity thee too much. Tha art naught but a choild at th' best, an' th' world is fu' o' trapsan' snares. "

Liz took off her hat and shawl and sat down. She covered her face withher hands, and sobbed appealingly. 

"I ha' na done no harm, " she protested. "I nivver meant none. It wur hisfault. He wunnot let me a-be, an'--an' he said he wanted to hear summatabout th' choild, an' gi'e me summat to help me along. He said as he wurashamed o' hissen to ha' left me wi'out money, but he wur hard run atthe toime, an' now he wanted to gi' me some. "

"Money!" said Joan. "Did he offer yo' money?"

"Aye, he said----"

"Wait!" said Joan. "Did yo' tak' it?"

"What would yo' ha' me do?" restlessly. "Theer wur no harm----"

"Ha' yo' getten it on yo'?" interrupting her again. 

"Aye, " stopping to look up questioningly. 

Joan held out her hand. 

"Gi'e it to me, " she said, steadily. 

Mr. Ralph Landsell, who was sitting in his comfortable private parlor atthe principal hotel of the little town, was disturbed in the enjoymentof his nightly cigar by the abrupt announcement of a visitor, --a youngwoman, who surprised him by walking into the room and straight up to thetable near which he sat. 

She was such a very handsome young woman, with her large eyes and finelycut face, and heavy nut-brown hair, and, despite her common dress, so very imposing a young woman, that the young man was quitestartled, --especially when she laid upon the table-cloth a littlepackage, which he knew had only left his hands half an hour before. 

"I ha' browt it back to yo';" she said, calmly. 

He glanced down at the package and then up at her, irritated andembarrassed. 

"You have brought it back to me?" he said. "May I ask what it is?"

"I dunnot think yo' need ask; but sin' yo' do so, I con answer. It's th'money, Mester Landsell, --th' money yo' give to poor Lizzie. "

"And may I ask again, what the money I gave to poor Lizzie has to dowith you?"

"Yo' may ask again, an' I con answer. I am th' poor lass'sfriend, --happen th' only friend she has i' th' world, --an' I tell yo' asI will na see yo' play her false again. "

"The devil!" he broke forth, angrily. "You speak as--as if you thought Imeant her harm. "

He colored and faltered, even as he spoke. Joan faced him with brightand scornful eyes. 

"If yo' dunnot mean her harm, dunnot lead her to underhand ways o'deceivin' them as means her well. If yo' dunnot mean her harm, tak' yorebelongings and leave Riggan to-morrow morning. "

He answered her by a short, uneasy laugh. 

"By Jove!" he said. "You are a cool hand, young woman--but you can setyour mind at rest. I shall not leave Riggan to-morrow morning, as youmodestly demand--not only because I have further business to transact, but because I choose to remain. I shall not make any absurd promisesabout not seeing Lizzie, which, it seems to me, is more my business thanyours, under the circumstances--and I shall not take the money back. "

"Yo' willna?"

"No, I will not. "

"Very well. I ha' no more to say, " and she went out of the room, leavingthe package lying upon the table. 

When she reached home, Liz was still sitting as she had left her, andshe looked up tearful and impatient. 

"Well?" she said. 

"He has th' money, " was Joan's answer, "an' he ha' shown me as he is avillain. "

She came and stood near the girl, a strong emotion in her half pitying, half appealing look. 

"Lizzie, lass!" she said. "Tha mun listen to me, --tha mun. Tha mun mak'me a promise before tha tak's thy choild upo' thy breast to-neet. "

"I dunnot care, " protested Liz, weeping fretfully. "I dunnot care whatI do. It's aw as bad as ivver now. I dunnot care for nowt. Ivvery-body'sat me--noan on yo' will let me a-be. What wi' first one an' then anotherI'm a'most drove wild. "

"God help thee!" said Joan with a heavy sigh. "I dunnot mean to be hard, lass, but yo' mun promise me. It is na mich, Lizzie, if--if things is naworse wi' yo' than I would ivver believe. Yo're safe so far: promiseme as yo' will na run i' danger--promise me as yo' will na see that managain, that yo'll keep out o' his way till he leaves Riggan. "

"I'll promise owt, " cried Liz. "I dunnot care, I tell yo'. I'll promiseowt yo'll ax, if yo'll let me a-be, " and she hid her face upon her armsand wept aloud. 

CHAPTER XXVII - Sammy Craddock's "Manny-ensis. "

At least twice a week Jud Bates made a pilgrimage to Haviland Park. Having been enlightened to the extent of two or three chapters of"Robinson Crusoe, " Sammy Craddock was athirst for more. He regarded theadventures of the hero as valuable information from foreign shores, asinformation that might be used in political debates, and brought forthon state occasions to floor a presumptuous antagonist. Accordingly, he held out inducements to Jud such as the boy was not likely to thinklightly of. A penny a night, and a good supper for himself and Nib, heldsolid attractions for Jud, and at this salary he found himself engagedin the character of what "Owd Sammy" called "a manny-ensis. "

"What's that theer?" inquired Mrs. Craddock on first hearing thisimposing title. "A manny--what?"

"A manny-ensis, owd lass, " said Sammy, chuckling. "Did tha ivver hear o'a private gentleman as had na a manny-ensis?"

"Nay. I know nowt about thy manny-ensisses, an' I'll warrant tha does naknow what such loike is thysen. "

"It means a power o' things, " answered Sammy; "a power o' things. It'sa word as is comprehensive, as they ca' it, an' it's one as will do aswell as any fur th' lad. A manny-ensis!" and manny-ensis it remained. 

Surely the adventures of the island-solitary had never given suchsatisfaction as they gave in the cheery house room of the lodge. Sammylistened to them over numerous pipes, with a respect for literature suchas had never before been engendered in his mind by the most imposingdisplay of bindings. 

"I've allus thowt as th' newspaper wur enow fur a mon to tackle, " hewould say, reflectively; "but theer's summat outside o' th' newspapers. I nivver seed a paper as had owt in it about desert islands, let alonecannybles. "

"Cannybles, indeed!" replied Mrs. Craddock, who was occasionally oneof the audience. "I conna mak' no sense out o' thee an' thy cannybles. Iwonder they are na' shamt o' theirsens, goin' about wi'out so mich as ahat on, an' eatin' each other, as if there wur na a bit o' good victuali' th' place. I wonder th' Queen dunnot put a stop to it hersen if th'parlyment ha' not getten the sense to do it. It's noan respectable, letalone Christian. "

"Eh!" said Sammy; "but tha'rt i' a muddle. Th'dst allus be i' a muddleif I'd let thee mak' things out thysen an' noan explain 'em to thee. Does tha think aw this here happent i' England? It wur i' furrin lands, owd wench, i' a desert island i' th' midst o' th' sea. "

"Well, I wur hopin' it wur na i' Lancashire, I mun say!"

"Lancashire! Why, it happent further off nor Lunnon, i' a place as it'sloike th' Queen has niv-ver seed nor heerd tell on. "

The old woman looked dubious, if not disapproving. A place that was notin Lancashire, and that the Queen had nothing to do with, was, to her, aplace quite "off color. "

"Well! well!" she resumed, with the manner of an unbeliever, "thee go onthy way readin' if tha con tak' comfort i' it. But I mun say again as itdoes na sound Christian to me. That's the least I con say on't. "

"Tha'rt slow i' understanding owd lass, " was her husband's tolerantcomment. "Tha' does na know enow o' litterytoor to appreciate. Th'female intylect is na strong at th' best, an' tha nivver wur more thanordinary. Get into it, Manny-ensis. It's getten late, and I'm fain tohear more about th' mon Friday, an' how th' poor' chap managed. "

Both reader and audience were so full of interest that Jud's story wasprolonged beyond the usual hour. But to the boy, this was a matter ofsmall consequence. He had tramped the woods too often with Nib for acompanion to feel fear at any time. He had slept under a hedge many anight from choice, and had enjoyed his slumber like a young vagabond, ashe was. 

He set out on this occasion in high good humor. There were no clouds tohide the stars; he had had an excellent supper, and he had enjoyed hisevening. He trudged along cheerily, his enjoyment as yet unabated. Thetrees and hedges, half stripped of their leaves, were so suggestive ofbirds' nests, that now and then he stepped aside to examine them moreclosely. The nests might be there yet, though the birds had flown. Wherethrostles had built this year, it was just possible others might buildagain, and, at any rate, it was as well to know where their haunts hadbeen. So, having objects enough to attract his attention, the boy didnot find the way long. He was close upon the mine before he had time tofeel fatigue possible, and, nearing the mine, he was drawn from hispath again by a sudden remembrance brought up by the sight of a hedgesurrounding a field near it. 

"Theer wur a bird as built i' that hedge i' th' spring, " he said. "Shewur a new kind. I'd forgotten her. I meant to ha' watched her. I wonderif any other felly fun her. I'll go an' see if th' nest is theer. "

He crossed the road to the place where he fancied he had seen thistreasure; but not being quite certain as to the exact spot, he found hissearch lengthened by this uncertainty. 

"It wur here, " he said to himself; "at least I thowt it wur. Some chapmun ha' fun it an' tuk it. "

At this moment he paused, as if listening. 

"What's that theer?" he said. "Theer's some one on th' other side o' th'hedge. "

He had been attracted by the sound of voices--men's voices--the voicesof men who were evidently crouching under the shadow of the hedge on theother side, and whose tones in a moment more reached him distinctly andwere recognized. 

The first was Dan Lowrie's, and before he had heard him utter a dozenwords, Jud dropped upon his knees and laid his hand warningly upon Nib'sneck. The dog pricked his pointed ears and looked up at him restlessly. All the self-control of his nature could scarcely help him to suppress awhine. 

"Them as is feared to stand by Dan Lowrie, " said the voice, with anoath, "let 'em say so. "

"Theer's not a mon here as is feart, " was the gruff answer. 

"Then theer's no need to gab no more, " returned Lowrie. "Yo' know whatyo' ha' getten to do. Yo' ha' th' vitriol an' th' sticks. Wait yo' furhim at th' second corner an' I'll wait at th' first. If he does na tak'one turn into th' road he'll tak' th' other, an' so which turn he tak'swe'll be ready fur him. Blast him! he'll be done wi' engineerin' fur awhile if he fa's into _my_ hands, an' he'll mak' no more rows about th'Davvies. "

Impatient for the word of command, Nib stirred uneasily among the deadleaves, and the men heard him. Not a moment's space was given to the twolisteners, or they would have saved themselves. There was a smotheredexclamation from three voices at once, a burst of profanity, and DanLowrie had leaped the low hedge and caught Jud by the collar. Theman was ghastly with rage. He shook the lad until even he himself wasbreathless. 

"Yo' young devil!" he cried, hoarsely, "yo've been listenin', ha'yo'? Nay, theer's no use o' yo' tryin' to brave it out. Yo've done foryorsen, by God!"

"Let me a-be, " said Jud, but he was as pale as his captor. "I wur nadoin' thee no harm. I on'y coom to look fur a bird's nest. "

"Yo' listened, " said Lowrie; "y o' heerd what we said. "

"Let me a-be, " was Jud's sullen reply. 

At this moment a man's face rose above the whitethorn hedge. 

"Who is it?" asked the fellow, in a low voice. 

"A dom'd young rascal as has been eaves-droppin'. Yo' may as well coomout, lads. We've getten to settle wi' him, or we'n fun ourselves in th'worst box yet. "

The man scrambled over the hedge without further comment and hiscompanion followed him; and seeing who they were, Jud felt that hisposition was even more dangerous than he fancied at first. The threeplotters who grouped themselves about him were three of the mostdesperate fellows in the district--brutal, revengeful, vicious, combining all the characteristics of a bad class. The two last looked athim with evident discomfort and bewilderment. 

"Here's a pretty go, " said one. 

"Aye, by th' Lord Harry!" added the other. "How long's he bin here?"

"How long'st bin here?" demanded Lowrie, with another shake. 

"Long enow to look fur a bird's nest an' not find it, " said Jud, tryingto speak stoutly. 

The three exchanged glances and oaths. 

"He's heerd ivvery word, " said Lowrie, in a savage answer. 

There was a moment's silence, and then Lowrie broke out again. 

"Theer's on'y one road to stop his gab, " he said. "Pitch him into th'mine, an' be dom'd to him. He shall na spoil th' job, if I ha' to swingfur it. "

Nib gave a low whine, and Jud's heart leaped within him. Every ladin Riggan knew Dan Lowrie and feared him. There was not a soul withinhearing, and people were not fond of visiting the mine at night, soif they chose to dispose of him in any way, they would have time andopportunity to do it without risk of being interfered with. But ithappened that upon the present occasion Lowrie's friends were not asheated as himself. It was not a strictly personal grudge they were goingto settle, and consequently some remnant of humanity got the better ofthem. 

"Nay, " said the youngest, "one's enow. "

"Nay, " Lowrie put in; "one's not enow fur me, if theer's another as isgoin' to meddle. Sum-mat's getten to be done, an' done quick. "

"Mak' him promise to keep his mouth shut, " suggested No. 3. "He'll do itsooner nor get hissen into trouble. "

"Wilt ta?" demanded the young one. 

Jud looked up at him. He had the stubborn North country blood in him, and the North country courage. Having heard what he had, he was sharpenough to comprehend all. There was only one engineer whom Lowrie couldhave a grudge against, and that one was Derrick. They were going to worksome harm against "Mester Derrick, " who was his friend and Miss Anice's. 

"Wilt ta?" repeated his questioner, feeling quite sure of him. The youthof Riggan were generally ready enough for mischief, and troubled by noscruples of conscience, so the answer he received took him by surprise. 

"Nay, " said Jud, "I will na. "

"Tha will na?"

"Nay. "

The fellow fell back a step or two to stare at him. 

"Well, tha'rt a plucky one at ony rate, " he growled, discomfited. 

Jud stood his ground. 

"Mester Derrick's bin good to me, " he said, "an' he's bin good to Nib. Th' rest o' yo' ha' a kick for Nib whenivver he gits i' yo're way; buthe nivver so much as spoke rough to him. He's gin me a penny more noronct to buy him sum-mat to eat. Chuck me down the shaft, if yo' wantto. "

Though he scarcely believed they would take him at his word, since thetwo were somewhat in his favor, it was a courageous thing to say. If hisfate had rested in Lowrie's hands alone, heaven knows what the resultmight have been; but having the others to contend with, he was safe sofar. But there was not much time to lose, and even the less interestedparties to the transgression had a stolid determination to stand bytheir comrade. There was a hurried consultation held in undertones, andthen the youngest man bent suddenly, and, with a short laugh, caughtNib in his arms. He was vicious enough to take a pleasure in playingtormentor, if in his cooler moods he held back from committing actualcrime. 

"Tha'rt a plucky young devil, " he said; "but tha's getten to swear tohowd thy tongue between thy teeth, an' if tha wunnot do it fur thy ownsake, happen tha will fur th' dog's. "

"What art tha goin' to do wi' him?" cried Jud, trembling. "He has nadone yo' no hurt. "

"We're goin' to howd him over th' shaft a minnit till tha mak's up thymind. Bring th' young chap along, lads. "

He had not struggled before, but he began to struggle now with all hisstrength. He grew hot and cold by turns. It might not be safe to killhim; but it would be safe enough to kill Nib. 

"Let me a-be, " he cried. "Let that theer dog loose. Nib, Nib, --seizehim, lad!"

"Put thy hond over his mouth, " said the young man. 

And so Jud was half dragged, half carried to the shaft. It was asuseless for him to struggle as it was for Nib. Both were powerless. But Jud's efforts to free himself were so frantic that the menlaughed, --Lowrie grimly, the other two with a kind of maliciousenjoyment of the grotesqueness of the situation. 

"Set him down, but keep him quiet, " was the command given when theyreached the pit's side. 

The next instant a dreadful cry was smothered in the boy's grappledthroat. They were leaning against the rail and holding Nib over theblack abyss. 

"Wilt ta promise?" he was asked. "Tha may let him speak, Lowrie; hecanna mak' foak hear. "

Nib looked down into the blackness, and broke into a terrific whine, turning his head toward his master. 

"I--I--conna promise, " said Jud; but he burst into tears. 

"Let th' dog go, " said Lowrie. 

"Try him again. Wilt ta promise, or mun we let th' dog go, lad? We'renoan goin' to do th' chap ony great harm; we're on'y goin' to play him atrick to pay him back fur his cheek. "

Jud looked at Nib. 

"Lowrie said you had vitriol and knob-sticks, " he faltered. "Yo' dunnatplay tricks wi' _them_. "

"Yo' see how much he's heerd, " said Lowrie. "He'll noan promise. "

The one who held the dog was evidently losing patience. 

"Say yes or no, yo' young devil, " he said, and he made a threateninggesture. "We conna stand here aw neet. Promise ta will na tell mon, woman, nor choild, what tha heerd us say. When I say 'three, ' I'll dropth' dog. One--two--"

The look of almost human terror in Nib's eyes was too much for hismaster. Desperation filled him. He could not sacrifice Nib--he could notsacrifice the man who had been Nib's friend; but he might make a sort ofsacrifice of himself to both. 

"Stop!" he cried. "I'll promise yo'"

He had saved Nib, but there was some parleying before he was set free, notwithstanding his promise to be silent. But for the fact that he wasunder the control of the others for the time being, Lowrie would haveresorted to harsher precautions; but possibly influenced by a touchof admiration for the lad, the youngest man held out against hiscompanions. They wrangled together for a few minutes, and then Nib washanded over. 

"Here, cut an' run, tha young beggar, " said the fellow who had stood byhim, "an' dunnot let's hear ony more on thee. If we do, it'll be worsefur thee an' th' dog too. So look out. "

Jud did not wait for a second command. The instant he felt Nib in hisarms, he scudded over the bare space of ground before him at his bestspeed. They should not have time to repent their decision. If the menhad seen his face, they might not have felt so safe. But the truth was, they were reckoning upon Jud Bates as they would have reckoned upon anyother young Riggan rascal of his age. After all, it was not so much hispromise they relied on as his wholesome fear of the consequences of itsbeing broken. It was not a matter of honor but of dread. 

CHAPTER XXVIII - Warned

It was even later than usual this evening when Fergus Derrick left theRectory. When Mr. Barholm was in his talkative mood, it was not easy forhim to break away. So Derrick was fain to listen and linger, and thensupper was brought in and he was detained again, and at eleven o'clockMr. Barholm suddenly hit upon a new topic. 

"By the by, " he said, "where is that fellow, Lowrie? I thought he hadleft Riggan. "

"He did leave Riggan, " answered Derrick. 

"So I heard, " returned the Rector, "and I suppose I was mistaken infancying I caught sight of him to-day. I don't know the man very welland I might easily be deceived. But where is he?"

"I think, " said Derrick, quietly, "that he is in Riggan. I am not ofthe opinion that you were mistaken at all. I am sure he is here, but forreasons of his own he is keeping himself quiet. I know him too well tobe deceived by any fancied resemblance. "

"But what are his reasons?" was the next question. "That looks bad, youknow. He belongs to a bad crew. "

"Bad enough, " said Derrick. 

"Is it a grudge? He is just the rascal to bear a grudge. "

"Yes, " said Derrick. "It is a grudge against _me_. "

He looked up then across the table at Anice and smiled reassuringly. 

"You did not tell us that you had seen him, " she said. 

"No. You think I ought to be afraid of him, and I am too vain to liketo admit the possibility that it would be better to fear any man, even aRiggan collier. "

"But such a man!" put in Mrs. Barholm. "It seems to me he is a man to befeared. "

"I can thrash him, " said Derrick. He could not help feeling someenjoyment in this certainty. "I _did_ thrash him upon one occasion, youknow, and a single combat with a fellow of that kind is oftener than notdecisive. "

"Yes, " said the Rector, "that is the principal cause of his grudge, Ithink. He might forgive you for getting him into trouble, but he willnever forgive you for thrashing him. "

They were still sitting at the table discussing the matter, when Anice, who sat opposite a window, rose from her seat, and crossing the room toit, drew aside the curtain and looked out. 

"There was somebody there, " she said, in answer to the questioning inthe faces of her companions. "There was a face pressed close against theglass for a minute, and I am sure it was Jud Bates. "

Derrick sprang from his chair. To his mind, it did not appear at allunlikely that Jud Bates had mischief in hand. There were apples enoughin the Rectory garden to be a sore trial to youthful virtue. 

He opened the door and stepped into the night, and in a short timea sharp familiar yelp fell upon the ears of the listeners. Almostimmediately after, Derrick returned, holding the trespasser by the arm. 

It was Jud Bates, but he did not look exactly like a convicted culprit, though his appearance was disordered enough. He was pale and out ofbreath, he had no cap on, and he was holding Nib, panting and excited, in his arms. 

"Jud, " exclaimed Anice, "what have you been doing? Why did you come tothe window?"

Jud drew Nib closer, and turned, if possible, a trifle paler. 

"I coom, " he said, tremulously, "to look in. "

Nobody smiled. 

"To look in?" said Anice. "Why, whom did you want to see?"

Jud jerked his elbow at Derrick. 

"It was _him_" he answered. "I wanted to see if he had gone home yet. "

"But why?" she asked again. 

He shuffled his feet uneasily and his eyes fell. He looked down at Nib'shead and faltered. 

"I--" he said. "I wanted to stop him. I--I dunnot know----" And then therest came in a burst. "He munnot go, " he cried, trembling afresh. "Hemun keep away fro' th' Knoll Road. "

The party exchanged glances. 

"There is mischief in hand, " said Mr. Barholm; "that is plain enough. "

"_He_ munnot go, " persisted Jud; "_he_ mun keep away fro' th' KnollRoad. I'm gettin' myself i' trouble, " he added, the indifference ofdespair in his pale face. "If I'm fun out they'll mill me. "

Derrick stepped aside into the hall and returned with his hat in hishand. He looked roused and determined. 

"There are two or three stout colliers in Rig-gan who are my friends, Ithink, " he said, "and I am going to ask them to face the Knoll Roadwith me. I should like to settle this matter to-night. If I give thesefellows the chance to attack me, they will be the more easily disposedof. A few years in jail might have a salutary effect upon Lowrie. "

In his momentary heat, he forgot all but the strife into which he wasforced. He did not question Jud closely. He knew Riggan and the miningdistricts too well not to have a clear enough idea of what means ofvengeance would be employed. 

But when he got out into the night he had not gone many yards beforea new thought flashed upon him, and quickened his pulse. It was not apleasant thought because it checked him, and he was in a mood to feelimpatient of a check. But he could not throw it off. There arose withinhis mind a picture of a silent room in a cottage, --of a girl sitting bythe hearth. He seemed to see quite clearly the bent head, the handsomeface, the sad eyes. He had a fancy that Liz was not with her to-night, that the silence of the room was only broken by the soft breathing ofthe child upon Joan's knee. 

He stopped with an impatient gesture. 

"What was I thinking of?" he demanded of himself, "to have forgotten_her_, and what my madness would bring upon her? I am a selfish fool!Let it go. I will give it up. I will stay in Riggan for the future--itwill not be long, and she need torture herself no more. I will give itup. Let them think I am afraid to face him. I am afraid--afraid to woundthe woman I--yes--the woman I _love'_. "

CHAPTER XXIX - Lying in Wait

Liz crept close to the window and looked down the road. At this time ofthe year it was not often that the sun set in as fair a sky. In October, Riggan generally shut its doors against damps and mist, and turnedtoward its fire when it had one. And yet Liz had hardly seen that thesun had shone at all to-day. Still, seeing her face a passer-by wouldnot have fancied that she was chilled. There was a flush upon hercheeks, and her eyes were more than usually bright. She was watching forJoan with a restless eagerness. 

"She's late, " she said. "I mought ha' knowed she'd be late. I wishtshe'd coom--I do. An' yet--an' yet I'm feart. I wisht it wur over;" andshe twisted her fingers together nervously. 

She had laid the child down upon the bed, and presently it roused herwith a cry. She went to it, took it up into her arms, and, carrying itto the fire, sat down. 

"Why couldn't tha stay asleep?" she said. "I nivver seed a choild loikethee. "

But the next minute, the little creature whimpering, she bent down inimpatient repentance and kissed it, whimpering too. 

"Dunnot, " she said. "I conna bear to hear thee. Hush, thee! tha goeson as if tha knew. Eh! but I mun be a bad lass. Ay, I'm bad through an'through, an' I conna be no worse nor I am. "

She did not kiss the child again, but held it in her listless way evenafter it fell asleep. She rested an elbow on her knee and her chin uponher hand while her tearful eyes searched the fire, and thus Joan foundher when she came in at dusk. 

"Tha'rt late again, Joan, " she said. 

"Ay, " Joan answered, "I'm late. "

She laid her things aside and came to the firelight. The little onealways won her first attention when she came from her day's labor. 

"Has she been frettin'?" she asked. 

"Ay, " said Liz, "she's done nowt else but fret lately. I dunnot knowwhat ails her. "

She was in Joan's arms by this time, and Joan stood looking at the punyface. 

"She is na well, " she said in a low voice. "She has pain as we know nowton, poor little lass. We conna help her, or bear it fur her. We would ifwe could, little un, "--as if she forgot Liz's presence. 

"Joan, " Liz faltered, "what if yo' were to lose her?"

"I hope I shanna. I _hope_ I shanna. "

"Yo' could na bear it?"

"Theer is na mich as we conna bear. "

"That's true enow, " said Liz. "I wish foak could dee o' trouble. "

"Theer's more nor yo' has wished th' same, " Joan answered. 

She thought afterward of the girl's words and remembered how she lookedwhen she uttered them, --her piteous eyes resting on the embers, her weaklittle mouth quivering, her small hands at work, --but when she heardthem, she only recognized in them a new touch of the old petulance towhich she had become used. 

Joan went about her usual tasks, holding the baby in her arms. Sheprepared the evening meal with Liz's assistance and they sat down to eatit together. But Liz had little appetite. In-deed neither of them atemuch and both were more than usually silent. A shadow of reserve hadlately fallen between them. 

After the meal was ended they drew their seats to the hearth again, andLiz went back to her brooding over the fire. Joan, lulling the child, sat and watched her. All Liz's beauty had returned to her. Her soft, rough hair was twisted into a curly knot upon her small head, herpretty, babyish face was at its best of bloom and expression--thatabsent, subdued look was becoming to her. 

"Theer's honest men as mought ha' loved her, " said Joan, inwardly. "Theer's honest men as would ha' made her life happy. "

It was just as she was thinking this that Liz turned round to her. 

"If she lived to be a woman, " with a gesture toward the child; "if shelived to be a woman, do yo' think as sh'd remember me if--if owt shouldhappen to me now?"

"I conna tell, " Joan answered, "but I'd try to mak' her. "

"Would yo'?" and then she dropped her face upon her hands. "It ud bebest if she'd forget me, " she said. "It ud be best if she'd forget me. "

"Nay, Liz, " said Joan. "Tha'rt out o' soarts. "

"Ay, I am, " said the girl, "an' I need be. Eh, Joan! tha'rt a goodwench. I wish I wur loike thee. "

"Tha need na, lass. "

"But I do. Tha'd nivver go wrong i' th' world. Nowt could mak' thee gowrong. Tha'rt so strong like. An' tha'rt patient, too, Joan, an' noanloike the rest o' women. I dunnot think--if owt wur to happen me now--astha'd ha' hard thowts o' me. Wouldst tha?" wistfully. 

"Nay, lass. I've been fond o' thee, an' sorry fur thee, and if tha wurto dee tha mayst mak' sure I'd noan be hard on thee. But tha art nagoin' to dee, I hope. "

To her surprise the girl caught her hand, and, pulling it down upon herknee, laid her cheek against it and burst into tears. 

"I dunnot know; I mought, or--or--summat. But nivver tha turn agen me, Joan, --nivver tha hate me. I am na loike thee, --I wur na made loikethee. I conna stand up agen things, but I dunnot think as I'm so bad asfoaks say!"

When this impassioned mood passed away, she was silent again for a longtime. The baby fell asleep upon Joan's breast, but she did not moveit, --she liked to feel it resting there; its close presence alwaysseemed to bring her peace. At length, however, Liz spoke once more. 

"Wheer wur thy feyther goin' wi' Spring an' Braddy?" she asked. 

Joan turned a pale face toward her. 

"Wheer did yo' see him wi' Spring an' Braddy?"

"Here, " was Liz's reply. "He wur here this afternoon wi' em. They didna coom in, though, --they waited i' th' road, while he went i' th' backroom theer fur summat. I think it wur a bottle. It wur that he coom fur, I know, fur I heerd Braddy say to him, 'Hast getten it?' an' thy feythersaid, 'Ay, ' an' th' other two laughed as if they wur on a spree o' somesoart. "

Joan rose from her chair, white and shaking. 

"Tak' th' choild, " she said, hoarsely. "I'm goin' out. "

"Out!" cried Liz. "Nay, dunnot go out What ails thee, Joan?"

"I ha' summat to do, " said Joan. "Stay tha here with th' choild. " Andalmost before she finished speaking she was gone, and the door hadclosed behind her. 

There would be three of them against one man. She walked faster as shethought of it, and her breath was drawn heavily. 

Lowrie bent down in his hiding-place, smiling grimly. He knelt uponthe grass behind a hedge at the road-side. He had reached the place aquarter of an hour before, and he had chosen his position as coolly asif he had been sitting down to take his tramp dinner in the shade. Therewas a gap in the hedge and he must not be too near to it or too far fromit. It would be easier to rush through this gap than to leap the hedge;but he must not risk being seen. The corner where the other men layconcealed was not far above him. It was only a matter of a few yards, but if he stood to wait at one turn and the engineer took the other, thegame would escape. 

So he had placed his comrades at the second, and he had taken the first. 

"I'd loike to ha' th' first yammer at him, " he had said, savagely. "Yo'can coom when yo' hear me. "

As he waited by the hedge, he put his hand out stealthily toward his"knob-stick" and drew it nearer, saying to himself:

"When I ha' done settlin' wi' him fur mysen, I shall ha' a bit o' anaccount to settle fur her. If it's his good looks as she's takken wi', she'll be noan so fond on him when she sees him next, I'll warrant. "

He had hit upon the greater villainy of stopping short of murder, --if hecould contain himself when the time came. 

At this instant a sound reached his ears which caused him to start. Hebent forward slightly toward the gap to listen. There were footstepsupon the road above him--footsteps that sounded familiar. Clouds haddrifted across the sky and darkened it, but he had heard that treadtoo often to mistake it now when every nerve was strung to its highesttension. A cold sweat broke out upon him in the impotence of his wrath. 

"It's th' lass hersen, " he said. "She's heerd summat, an' she's as goodas her word!"--with an oath. 

He got up and stood a second trembling with rage. He drew his sleeveacross his forehead and wiped away the sweat, and then turned roundsharply. 

"I'll creep up th' road an' meet her afore she reaches th' first place, "he panted. "If she sees th' lads, it's aw up wi' us. I'll teach hersummat as she'll noan forget. "

He was out into the Knoll Road in a minute more. 

"I'll teach her to go agen me, " he muttered. 

"I'll teach her, by ------" But the sentence was never ended. There wasa murmur he did not understand, a rush, a heavy rain of blows, a dash ofsomething in his face that scorched like liquid fire, and with a shriek, he fell writhing. 

CHAPTER XXX - The Slip of Paper

A minute after there rushed past Joan, in the darkness, twomen, --stumbling and cursing as they went, out of breath, horror-strickenand running at the top of their speed. 

"It wur Lowrie hissen, by ------!" she heard one say, as he dashed by. 

"Feyther! Feyther, wheer are yo'? Feyther, are yo' nigh me?" she cried, for she heard both the blows and the shriek. 

But there came no answer to her ear. The rapid feet beating upon theroad, their echo dying in the distance, made the only sound that brokethe stillness. There was not even a groan. Yet a few paces from her, lay a battered, bleeding form. There was no starlight now, she could seeonly the vague outline of the figure, which might be that of either oneman or the other. For an instant, the similarity in stature which haddeceived his blundering companions, deceived her also; but when sheknelt down and touched the shoulder, she knew it was not the master wholay before her. 

"It's feyther hissen, " she said, and then she drew away her hand, shuddering. "It's wet wi' blood, " she said. "It's wet wi' blood!"

He did not hear her when she spoke; he was not conscious that she triedto raise him; his head hung forward when she lifted him; he lay heavily, and without motion, upon her arms. 

"They ha' killed him!" she said. "How is it, as it is na _him?_"

There was neither light nor help nearer than "The Crown" itself, andwhen her brain became clearer, she remembered this. Without light andassistance, she could do nothing; she could not even see what hurt hehad sustained. Dead or dying, he must lie here until she had time to gethelp. 

She took off her shawl, and folding it, laid his head gently upon itThen she put her lips to his ear. 

"Feyther, " she said, "I'm goin' to bring help to thee. If tha con hearme, stir thy hond. "

He did not stir it, so she disengaged her arm as gently as possible, and, rising to her feet, went on her way. 

There were half a dozen men in the bar-room when she pushed the doorinward and stood upon the threshold. They looked up in amazement. 

"Those on yo' as want to help a deeing mon, " she said, "come wi' me. Myfeyther's lyin' in the Knoll Road, done to death. "

All were astir in a moment. Lanterns and other necessaries wereprovided, and bearing one of these lanterns herself, Joan led the way. 

As she stepped out onto the pavement a man was passing, and, attractedby the confusion, turned to the crowd:

"What is the matter?" he asked. 

"There's a mon been killed up on th' Knoll Road, " answered one of thecolliers. "It's this lass's feyther, Dan Lowrie. "

The man strode into the light and showed an agitated face. 

"Killed!" he said, "Dan Lowrie!"

It was Fergus Derrick. 

He recognized Joan immediately, and went to her. 

"For pity's sake, " he exclaimed, "don't go with them. If what theysay is true, this is no place for you. Let me take you home. You oughtnot----"

"It wur me, " interrupted Joan, in a steady voice, "as found him. "

He could not persuade her to remain behind, so he walked on by her side. He asked her no questions. He knew enough to understand that his enemyhad reaped the whirlwind he had himself sown. 

It was he who knelt first by the side of the prostrate man, holding thelantern above the almost unrecognizable face. Then he would have raisedthe lifeless hand, but Joan, who had bent down near him, stopped himwith a quick move. 

"Dunnot do that, " she faltered, and when he looked up in surprise, he comprehended her meaning, even before she added, in a passionateundertone, the miserable words:

"Ther's blood on it, as might ha' bin yo're own. "

"Theer's a bottle here, " some one cried out suddenly. "A bottle as Ijust set my foot on. Chaps, theer's been vitriol throwed. "

"Ay, " cried another, "so theer has; chaps, look yo' here. Th' villainshas vitriolled him. "

They laid him upon the shutter they had brought, and carried himhomeward. Joan and Derrick were nearest to him as they walked. 

They were not far from the cottage, and it was not long before thelight glimmered through the window upon them. Seeing it, Joan turned toDerrick suddenly. 

"I mun hurry on before, " she said. "I mun go and say a word to Liz. Comin' aw at onct th' soight ud fear her. "

Reaching the house, she pushed the door open and went in. Everything wasso quiet that she fancied the girl must have gone to bed. 

"Liz, " she said aloud. "Liz!"

Her voice fell with an echoing sound upon the silent room. She looked atthe bed and saw the child lying there asleep. Liz was not with it. Shepassed quickly into the room adjoining and glanced around. It was empty. Moved by some impulse she went back to the bed, and in bending over thechild, saw a slip of paper pinned upon its breast, and upon this paperJoan read, in the sprawling, uncertain hand she knew so well:

 "Dunnot be hard on me, Joan, dunnot--Good-bye!"

When Derrick entered the door, he found Joan standing alone in thecentre of the room, holding the scrap of paper in her hand. 

CHAPTER XXXI - The Last Blow

"He won't live, " the doctor said to Derrick. "He's not the man toget over such injuries, powerful as he looks. He has been a reckless, drunken brute, and what with the shock and reaction nothing will savehim. The clumsy rascals who attacked him meant to do him harm enough, but they have done him more than they intended, or at least the man'santecedents will help them to a result they may not have aimed at. Wemay as well tell the girl, I suppose--fine creature, that girl, by theway. She won't have any sentimental regrets. It's a good riddance forher, to judge from what I know of them. "

"I will tell her, " said Derrick. 

She listened to him with no greater show of emotion than an increasedpallor. She remembered the wounded man only as a bad husband and a badfather. Her life would have been less hard to bear if he had diedyears ago, but now that death stood near him, a miserable sense ofdesolateness fell upon her, inconsistent as such a feeling might seem. 

The village was full of excitement during this week. Everybody was readywith suggestions and conjectures, everybody wanted to account for theassault. At first there seemed no accounting for it at all, but atlength some one recollected that Lowrie had been last seen with Springand Braddy. They had "getten up a row betwixt theirsens, and t'othershad punsed him. "

The greatest mystery was the use of vitriol. It could only be decidedthat it had not been an ordinary case of neighborly "punsing, " and thatthere must have been a "grudge" in the matter. Spring and Braddyhad disappeared, and all efforts to discover their whereabouts wereunavailing. 

On the subject of Liz's flight Joan was silent, but it did not remain asecret many hours. A collier's wife had seen her standing, crying, andholding a little bundle on her arm at the corner of a lane, and havingbeen curious enough to watch, had also seen Landsell join her a fewminutes later. 

"She wur whimperin' afore he coom, " said the woman, "but she cried i'good earnest when he spoke to her, an' talked to him an' hung back asif she could na mak' up her moind whether to go or no. She wur a softthing, that wench, it wur allus whichivver way th' wind blowed wi' her. I could nivver see what that lass o' Lowrie's wanted wi' her. Now she'sgetten th' choild on her honds. "

The double shock had numbed Joan. She went about the place and waitedupon her father in a dull, mechanical way. She said but little to thecurious crowd, who, on pretence of being neighborly, flocked to thehouse. She had even had very little to say to Anice. Perhaps after all, her affection for poor Liz had been a stronger one than she had thought. 

"I think, " Grace said gently to Anice, "that she does not exactly needus yet. "

He made the remark in the Rector's presence and the Reverend Harold didnot agree with him. 

"I am convinced that you are mistaken, Grace, " he said. "You are alittle too--well, too delicately metaphysical for these people. You havesensitive fancies about them, and they are not a sensitive class. Whatthey want is good strong doctrine, and a certain degree of wholesomefrankness. They need teaching. That young woman, now--it seems tome that this is the time to rouse her to a sense of her--her moralcondition. She ought to be roused, and so ought the man. It is a greatpity that he is unconscious. "

Of Joan's strange confession of faith, Anice had told him something, buthe had been rather inclined to pronounce it "emotional, " and somehowor other could not quite divest himself of the idea that she neededthe special guidance of a well-balanced and experienced mind. Thewell-balanced and experienced mind in view was his own, though of coursehe was not aware of the fact that he would not have been satisfied withthat of any other individual. He was all the more disinclined to believein Joan's conversion because his interviews with her continued to beas unsatisfactory as ever. Her manner had altered; she had toned downsomewhat, but she still caused him to feel ill at ease. If she did notdefy him any longer or set his teachings at naught, her grave eyes, resting on him silently, had sometimes the effect of making his wordsfail him; which was a novel experience with the Rector. 

In a few days Lowrie began to sink visibly. As the doctor predicted, thereaction was powerful, and remedies were of no avail. He lay upon thebed, at times unconscious, at times tossing to and fro in delirium. During her watching at the bedside, Joan learned the truth. Sometimes hefancied himself tramping the Knoll Road homeward through the rain, andthen he muttered sullenly of the "day" that was coming to him, and thevengeance he was returning to take; sometimes he went through the scenewith Joan herself, and again, he waited behind the hedge for his enemy, one moment exultant, the next striving to struggle to his feet withcurses upon his lips and rage in his heart, as he caught the sound ofthe advancing steps he knew so well. As he went over these scenes againand again, it was plain enough to the listener that his vengeance hadfallen upon his own head. 

The day after he received his hurts a collier dropped into "The Crown"with a heavy stick in his hand. 

"I fun this knob-stick nigh a gap i' th' hedge on th' Knoll Road, " hesaid. "It wur na fur fro' wheer they fun Lowrie. Happen them chaps laidi' wait fur him an' it belongs to one o' 'em. "

"Let's ha' a look at it, " said a young miner, and on its being handed tohim he inspected it closely. 

"Why!" he exclaimed. "It's Lowrie's own. I seed him wi' it th' day aforehe wur hurt. I know th' shape o' th' knob. How could it ha' coom theer?"

But nobody could guess. It was taken to Joan and she listened to thestory without comment. There was no reason why they should be told whatshe had already discovered. 

When Lowrie died, Anice and Grace were in the room with Joan. After thefirst two days the visitors had dropped off. They had satisfied theircuriosity. Lowrie was not a favorite, and Joan had always seemed tostand apart from her fellows, so they were left to themselves. 

Joan was standing near the bed when there came to him his first andlast gleam of consciousness. The sun was setting, and its farewell glowstreaming through the window fell upon his disfigured face and sightlesseyes. He roused him-self, moving uneasily. 

"What's up wi' me?" he muttered. "I conna see--I conna--"

Joan stepped forward. 

"Feyther, " she said. 

Then memory seemed to return to him. An angry light shot across hisface. He flung out his hands and groaned:

"What!" he cried, "tha art theer, art tha?" and helpless and brokenas he was, he wore that moment a look Joan had long ago learned tounderstand. 

"Ay, feyther, " she answered. 

It appeared as if, during the few moments in which he lay gasping, afull recognition of the fact that he had been baffled and beaten afterall--that his plotting had been of no avail--forced itself upon him. Hemade an effort to speak once or twice and failed, but at last the wordscame. 

"Tha went agen me, did tha?" he panted. "Dom thee!" and with a struggleto summon all his strength, he raised himself, groping, struck at herwith his clenched hand, and failing to reach her, fell forward with hisface upon the bed. 

It was all over when they raised him and laid him back again. Joan stoodupright, trembling a little, but otherwise calm. 

CHAPTER XXXII - "Turned Methody!"

It had been generally expected that when all was over the cottage uponthe Knoll Road would be closed and deserted, but some secret fancy heldJoan to the spot. Perhaps the isolation suited her mood; perhaps themere sense of familiarity gave her comfort. 

"I should na be less lonely any wheer else, " she said to Anice Barholm. "Theer's more here as I feel near to than i' any other place. I ha' nofriends, yo' know. As to th' choild, I con carry it to Thwaite's wifei' th' mornin' when I go to th' pit, an' she'll look after it till neet, for a trifle. She's getten childern o' her own, and knows their ways. "

So she went backward and forward night and morning with her littleburden in her arms. The child was a frail, tiny creature, never strong, and often suffering, and its very frailty drew Joan nearer to it. Itwas sadly like Liz, pretty and infantine. Many a rough but experiencedmother, seeing it, prophesied that its battle with life would be brief. With the pretty face, it had inherited also the helpless, irresolute, appealing look. Joan saw this in the baby's eyes sometimes and wasstartled at its familiarity; even the low, fretted cry had in itsomething that was painfully like its girl-mother's voice. More thanonce a sense of fear had come upon Joan when she heard and recognizedit. But her love only seemed to strengthen with her dread. 

Day by day those who worked with her felt more strongly the changedeveloping so subtly in the girl. The massive beauty which had almostseemed to scorn itself was beginning to wear a different aspect; thedefiant bitterness of look and tone was almost a thing of the past; therough, contemptuous speech was less scathing and more merciful when atrare intervals it broke forth. 

"Summat has coom over her, " they said among themselves. "Happen it wurtrouble. She wur different, somehow. "

They were somewhat uneasy under this alteration; but, on the whole, thegeneral feeling was by no means unfriendly. Time had been when they hadknown Joan Lowrie only as a "lass" who held herself aloof, and yet ina manner overruled them; but in these days more than one stunted, overworked girl or woman found her hard task rendered easier by Joan'sstrength and swiftness. 

It was true that his quiet and unremitted efforts had smoothed Grace'spath to some extent. There were ill-used women whom he had helped andcomforted; there were neglected children whose lives he had contrivedto brighten; there were unbelievers whose scoffing his gentle simplicityand long-suffering had checked a little. He could be regarded no longerwith contempt in Riggan; he even had his friends there. 

Among those who still mildly jeered at the little Parson stood foremost, far more through vanity than malice, "Owd Sammy Craddock. " A couple ofmonths after Lowrie's death, "Owd Sammy" had sauntered down to the mineone day, and was entertaining a group of admirers when Grace went by. 

It chanced that, for some reason best known to himself, Sammy was by nomeans in a good humor. Something had gone wrong at home or abroad, andhis grievance had rankled and rendered him unusually contumacious. 

Nearing the group, Grace looked up with a faint but kindly smile. 

"Good-morning!" he said; "a pleasant day, friends!"

"Owd Sammy" glanced down at him with condescending tolerance. He hadbeen talking himself, and the greeting had broken in upon his eloquence. 

"Which on us, " he asked dryly; "which on us said it wur na?"

A few paces from the group of idlers Joan Lowrie stood at work. Someof the men had noted her presence when they lounged by, but in theenjoyment of their gossip, they had forgotten her again. She had seenGrace too; she had heard his greeting and the almost brutal laugh thatfollowed it; and, added to this, she had caught a passing glimpse of theCurate's face. She dropped her work, and, before the laugh had died out, stood up confronting the loungers. 

"If theer is a mon among yo' as he has harmed, " she said; "if theer'sone among yo' as he's ivver done a wrong to, let that mon speak up. "

It was "Owd Sammy" who was the first to recover himself. Probably heremembered the power he prided himself upon wielding over the weakersex. He laid aside his pipe for a moment and tried sarcasm, --anadaptation of the same sarcasm he had tried upon the Curate. 

"Which on us said theer wur?" he asked. 

Joan turned her face, pale with repressed emotion, toward him. 

"There be men here as I would scarce ha' believed could ha' had muchagen him. I see one mon here as has a wife as lay nigh death a month orso ago, an' it were the Parson as went to see her day after day, an'tuk her help and comfort. Theer's another mon here as had a little unto dee, an' when it deed, it wur th' Parson as knelt by its bed an' heldits hond an' talkt to it when it were feart. Theer's other men here ashad help fro' him as they did na know of, an' it wur help from a mon aswur na far fro' a-bein' as poor an' hard worked i' his way as they arei' theirs. Happen th' mon I speak on dunnot know much about th' sickwife, an' deein choild, an' what wur done for 'em, an' if they dunnot, it's th' Parson's fault. "

"Why!" broke in "Owd Sammy. " "Blame me, if tha art na turned Methody!Blame me, " in amazement, "if tha art na!"

"Nay, " her face softening; "it is na Methody so much. Happen I'm turnin'woman, fur I conna abide to see a hurt gi'en to them as has na earnedit. That wur why I spoke. I ha' towd yo' th' truth o' th' little chapyo' jeered at an' throw'd his words back to. "

Thus it became among her companions a commonly accepted belief that JoanLowrie had turned "Methody. " They could find no other solution to herchampionship of the Parson. 

"Is it true as tha's j'ined th' Methodys?" Thwaite's wife asked Joan, somewhat nervously. 

She had learned to be fond of the girl, and did not like the idea ofbelieving in her defection. 

"No, " she answered, "it is na. "

The woman heaved a sigh of relief. 

"I thowt it wur na, " she said. "I towd th' Maxys as I did na believeit when they browt th' tale to me. They're powerful fond o' talebearingthat Maxy lot. "

Joan stopped in her play with the child. 

"They dunnot understand, " she said, "that's aw. I ha' learned to thinkdifferent, an' believe i' things as I did na use to believe in. Happenthat's what they mean by talkin' o' th' Methodys. "

People learned no more of the matter than this. They felt that in someway Joan had separated herself from their ranks, but they found ittroublesome to work their way to any more definite conclusion. 

"Hast heard about that lass o' Lowrie's?" they said to one another;"hoo's takken a new turn sin' Lowrie deed; hoo allus wur a queer-loike, high-handed wench. "

After Lowrie's death, Anice Barholm and Joan were oftener together thanever. What had at first been friendship had gradually become affection. 

"I think, " Anice said to Grace, "that Joan must go away from here andfind a new life. "

"That is the only way, " he answered. "In this old one there has beennothing but misery for her, and bitterness and pain. "

Fergus Derrick was sitting at a table turning over a book of engravings. He looked up sharply. 

"Where can you find a new life for her?" he asked. "And how can you helpher to it? One dare not offer her even a semblance of assistance. "

They had not spoken to him, but he had heard, as he always heard, everything connected with Joan Lowrie. He was always restless and eagerwhere she was concerned. All intercourse between them seemed to be at anend. Without appearing to make an effort to do so, she kept out of hispath. Try as he might, he could not reach her. At last it had come tothis: he was no longer dallying upon the brink of a great and dangerouspassion, --it had overwhelmed him. 

"One cannot even approach her, " he said again. 

Anice regarded him with a shade of pity in her face. 

"The time is coming when it will not be so, " she said. 

The night before Joan Lowrie had spent an hour with her. She had come inon her way from her work, before going to Thwaite's, and had knelt downupon the hearth-rug to warm herself. There had been no light in the roombut that of the fire, and its glow, falling upon her face, had revealedto Anice something like hag-gardness. 

"Joan, " she said, "are you ill?"

Joan stirred a little uneasily, but did not look at her as she answered:

"Nay, I am na ill; I nivver wur ill i' my loife. "

"Then, " said Anice, "what--what is it that I see in your face?"

There was a momentary tremor of the finely moulded, obstinate chin. 

"I'm tired out, " Joan answered. "That's all, " and her hand fell upon herlap. 

Anice turned to the fire. 

"What is it?" she asked, almost in a whisper. 

Joan looked up at her, --not defiant, not bitter, not dogged, --simply inappeal against her own despair. 

"Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world? Is it allus to be thisway wi' me? Con I nivver reach no higher, strive as I will, pray as Iwill, --fur I _have_ prayed? Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th'world?"

"Yes, " said Anice, "I am sure there is. "

"I've thowt as theer mun be somewheer. Sometimes I've felt sure as theermun be, an' then agen I've been beset so sore that I ha' almost gi'en itup. If there is such a place fur me I mun find it--I mun!"

"You will find it, " said Anice. "Some day, surely. "

Anice thought of all this again when she glanced at Derrick. Derrick wasmore than usually disturbed to-day. He had for some time been workinghis way to an important decision, fraught with some annoyance andanxiety to himself. There was to be a meeting of the owners in a fewweeks, and at this meeting he had determined to take a firm stand. 

"The longer I remain in my present position, the more fully I amconvinced of the danger constantly threatening us, " he said to Anice. "I am convinced that the present system of furnaces is the cause of moreexplosions than are generally attributed to it. The mine here is a'fiery' one, as they call it, and yet day after day goes by and noprecautions are taken. There are poor fellows working under me whoseexistence means bread to helpless women and children. I hold their livesin trust, and if I am not allowed to place one frail barrier betweenthem and sudden death, I will lead them into peril no longer, --I willresign my position. At least I can do that. "

The men under him worked with a dull, heavy daring, born of long use anda knowledge of their own helplessness against their fate. There wasnot one among them who did not know that in going down the shaft tohis labor, he might be leaving the light of day behind him forever. Butseeing the blue sky vanish from sight thus during six days of fifty-twoweeks in the year, engendered a kind of hard indifference. Explosionshad occurred, and might occur again; dead men had been carried up tobe stretched on the green earth, --men crushed out of all semblance tohumanity; some of themselves bore the marks of terrible maiming; butit was an old story, and they had learned to face the same hazardrecklessly. 

With Fergus Derrick, however, it was a different matter. It was he whomust lead these men into new fields of danger. 

CHAPTER XXXIII - Fate

The time came, before many days, when the last tie that bound Joan toher present life was broken. The little one, who from the first hadclung to existence with a frail hold, at last loosened its weak grasp. It had been ill for several days, --so ill that Joan had remained athome to nurse it, --and one night, sitting with it upon her knee in heraccustomed place, she saw a change upon the small face. 

It had been moaning continuously, and suddenly the plaintive soundceased. Joan bent over it. She had been holding the tiny hand as shealways did, and at this moment the soft fingers closed upon one of herown quietly. She was quite alone, and for an instant there was a deepsilence. After her first glance at the tiny creature, she broke thissilence herself. 

"Little lass, " she said in a whisper, "what ails thee? Is thy paino'er?"

As she looked again at the baby face upturned as if in silent answer, the truth broke in upon her. 

Folding her arms around the little form, she laid her head upon itsbreast and wept aloud, --wept as she had never wept before. Then she laidthe child upon a pillow and covered its face. Liz's last words returnedto her with a double force. It had not lived to forget or blame her. Where was Liz to-night, --at this hour, when her child was so safe?

The next morning, on her way downstairs to the breakfast-room, AniceBarholm was met by a servant. 

"The young woman from the mines would like to see you, Miss, " said thegirl. 

Anice found Joan awaiting her below. 

"I ha' come to tell yo', " she said, "that th' little un deed at midneet. Theer wur no one I could ca' in. I sat alone wi' it i' th' room aw th'neet, an' then I left it to come here. "

Anice and Thwaite's wife returned home with her. What little there wasto be done, they re-mained to do. But this was scarcely more than towatch with her until the pretty baby face was hidden away from humansight. 

When all was over, Joan became restless. The presence of the child hadsaved her from utter desolation, and now that it was gone, the emptinessof the house chilled her. At the last, when her companions were about toleave her, she broke down. 

"I conna bear it, " she said. "I will go wi' yo'. "

Thwaite's wife had proposed before that she should make her home withthem; and now, when Mrs. Thwaite returned to Riggan, Joan accompaniedher, and the cottage was locked up. 

This alteration changed greatly the routine of her life. There werechildren in the Thwaite household--half a dozen of them--who, havingovercome their first awe of her, had learned before the baby died to befond of Joan. Her handsome face attracted them when they ceased to fearits novelty; and the hard-worked mother said to her neighbors:

"She's getten a way wi' childer, somehow, --that lass o' Lowrie's. Yo'dwonder if yo' could see her wi' 'em. She's mony a bit o' help to me. "

But as time progressed, Anice Barholm noted the constant presenceof that worn look upon her face. Instead of diminishing, it grew anddeepened. Even Derrick, who met her so rarely, saw it when he passed herin the street. 

"She is not ill, is she?" he asked Anice once, abruptly. 

Anice shook her head. 

"No, she is not ill. "

"Then she has some trouble that nobody knows about, " he said. "What asplendid creature she is!" impetuously--"and how incomprehensible!"

His eyes chanced to meet Anice's, and a dark flush swept over his face. He got up almost immediately after and began to pace the room, as washis habit. 

"Next week the crisis will come at the mines, " he said. "I wonder how itwill end for me. "

"You are still determined?" said Anice. 

"Yes, I am still determined. I wish it were over. Perhaps there will bea Fate in it"--his voice lowering itself as he added this last sentence. 

"A Fate?" said Anice. 

"I am growing superstitious and full of fancies, " he said. "I donot trust to myself, as I once did. I should like Fate to bear theresponsibility of my leaving Riggan or remaining in it. "

"And if you leave it?" asked Anice. 

For an instant he paused in his walk, with an uncertain air. But heshook this uncertainty off with a visible effort, the next moment. 

"If I leave it, I do not think I shall return, and Fate will havesettled a long unsettled question for me. "

"Don't leave it to Fate, " said Anice in a low tone. "Settle it foryourself. It does not--it is not--it looks----"

"It looks cowardly, " he interrupted her. "So it does, and so it is. Godknows I never felt myself so great a coward before!"

He had paused again. This time he stood before her. The girl's grave, delicate face turned to meet his glance and seeing it, a thought seemedto strike him. 

"Anice, " he said, the dark flush rising afresh. "I promised you that ifthe time should ever come when I needed help that it was possible youmight give, I should not be afraid to ask you for it. I am coming to youfor help. Not now--some day not far distant. That is why I remind you ofthe compact. "

"I did not need reminding, " she said to him. 

"I might have known that, " he answered, --"I think I did know it But letus make the compact over again. "

She held out her hand to him, and he took it eagerly. 

CHAPTER XXXIV - The Decision

The owners of the Riggan collieries held their meeting. That a personin their employ should differ from them boldly, and condemn their courseopenly, was an extraordinary event; that a young man in the outset ofhis career should dare so much was unprecedented. It would be a ruinousthing, they said among themselves, for so young a man to lose soimportant a position on the very threshold of his professional life, andthey were convinced that his knowledge of this would restrain him. Butthey were astounded to find that it did not. 

He brought his plans with him, and laid them before them. They wereplans for the abolition of old and dangerous arrangements, for theamelioration of the condition of the men who labored at the hourly riskof their lives, and for rendering this labor easier. Especially, therewere plans for a newer system of ventilation--proposing the substitutionof fans for the long-used furnace. One or two of the younger men leanedtoward their adoption. But the men with the greatest influence wereolder, and less prone to the encouragement of novelty. 

"It's all nonsense, " said one. "Furnaces have been used ever since themines were opened, and as to the rest--it arises, I suppose, from thecomplaints of the men. They always will complain--they always did. "

"So far they have had reason for complaint, " remarked Derrick. "As yousay, there have been furnaces ever since there have been mines, andthere have also been explosions which may in many cases be attributedto them. There was an explosion at Browton a month ago which was tosome extent a mystery, but there were old miners who understood it wellenough. The return air, loaded with gas, had ignited at the furnace, and the result was that forty dead and wounded men were carried up theshaft, to be recognized, when they were recognizable, by mothers, andwives, and children, who depended upon them for their scant food. "

Derrick argued his cause well and with spirit, keeping a tight rein uponhimself; but when, having exhausted his arguments, he found that he hadnot advanced his cause, and that it was a settled matter that he shouldnot, he took fire. 

"Then, gentlemen, " he said, "I have but one resource. I will holdno human life lightly in my hands. I have the honor to tender you myresignation. "

There was a dead silence for a moment or so. They had certainly notexpected such a result as this. A well-disposed young man, who sat nearto Derrick, spoke to him in a rapid undertone. 

"My dear fellow, " he said, "it will be the ruin of you. For my part, Iadmire your enthusiasm, but do not be rash. "

"A man with a will and a pair of clean hands is not easily ruined, "returned Derrick a trifle hotly. "As to being rash or enthusiastic, I amneither the one nor the other. It is not enthusiasm which moves me, itis a familiarity with stern realities. "

When he left the room his fate had been decided. At the end of the weekhe would have no further occupation in Riggan. He had only two moredays' work before him and he had gained the unenviable reputation ofbeing a fire-and-tow young fellow, who was flighty enough to make amartyr of himself. 

Under the first street-lamp he met Grace, who was evidently making hisway home. 

"I will go with you, " he said, taking his arm. 

Once within the walls of the pleasant little room, he found it easy tounbosom himself. He described his interview with his employers, and itstermination. 

"A few months ago, I flattered myself that my prospects were improving, "he said; "but now it seems that I must begin again, which is not an easymatter, by the way. "

By the time he ended he found his temporary excitement abating somewhat, but still his mood was by no means undisturbed. 

It was after they had finished tea and the armchairs had been drawn tothe fire that Grace himself made a revelation. 

"When you met me to-night, I was returning from a visit I had paid toJoan Lowrie. "

"At Thwaite's?" said Derrick. 

"At Thwaite's. She--the fact is I went on business--she has determinedto change her plan of life. "

"In what manner?"

"She is to work no more at the mines. I am happy to say that I have beenable to find her other employment. "

There was an interval of silence, at length broken by Derrick. 

"Grace, " he said, "can you tell me why she decided upon such a course?"

Grace looked at him with questioning surprise. 

"I can tell you what she said to me on the subject, " he replied. "Shesaid it was no woman's work, and she was tired of it. "

"She is not the woman to do anything without a motive, " mused Derrick. 

"No, " returned the Curate. 

A moment later, as if by one impulse, their eyes met. Grace started asif he had been stung. Derrick simply flushed. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"I--I do not think I understand, " Grace faltered. "Surely I amblundering. "

"No, " said Derrick, gloomily. "You cannot blunder since you know thetruth. You did not fancy that my feeling was so trivial that I couldhave conquered it so soon? Joan Lowrie----"

"Joan Lowrie!"

Grace's voice had broken in upon him with a startled sound. 

The two men regarded each other in bewilderment. Then again Derrick wasthe first to speak. 

"Grace, " he said, "you have misunderstood me. "

Grace answered him with a visible tremor. 

"If, " he said, "it was to your love for Joan Lowrie you referred whenyou spoke to me of your trouble some months ago, I _have_ misunderstoodyou. If the obstacles you meant were the obstacles you would find in thepath of such a love, I have misunderstood you. If you did not mean thatyour heart had been stirred by a feeling your generous friendship causedyou to regard as unjust to _me_, I have misunderstood you miserably. "

"My dear fellow!" Derrick exclaimed, with some emotion. "My dear fellow, do you mean to tell me that you imagined I referred to Miss Barholm?"

"I was sure of it, " was Grace's agitated reply. "As I said before, Ihave misunderstood you miserably. "

"And yet you had no word of blame for me?"

"I had no right to blame you. I had not lost what I believed you hadwon. It had never been mine. It was a mistake, " he added, endeavoring tosteady himself. "But don't mind me, Derrick. Let us try to set it right;only I am afraid you will have to begin again. "

Derrick drew a heavy breath. He took up a paper-knife from the table, and began to bend it in his hands. 

"Yes, " he said, "we shall have to begin again. And it is told in a fewwords, " he said, with a deliberateness painful in its suggestion of anintense effort at self-control. "Grace, what would you think of aman who found himself setting reason at defiance, and in spite of allobstacles confronting the possibility of loving and marrying--if she canbe won--such a woman as Joan Lowrie?"

"You are putting me in a difficult position, " Paul answered. "If hewould dare so much, he would be the man to dare to decide for himself. "

Derrick tossed the paper-knife aside. 

"And you know that I am the person in question. _I_ have so defied theworld, in spite of myself at first, I must confess. _I_ have confrontedthe possibility of loving Joan Lowrie until I _do_ love her. So therethe case stands. "

Gradually there dawned upon the Curate's mind certain remembrancesconnected with Joan. Now and then she had puzzled and startled him, buthere, possibly, might be a solution of the mystery. 

"And Joan Lowrie herself?" he asked, questioningly. 

"Joan Lowrie herself, " said Derrick, "is no nearer to me to-day than shewas a year ago. "

"Are you, "--hesitatingly, --"are you quite sure of that?"

The words had escaped his lips in spite of himself. 

Derrick started and turned toward him with a sudden movement

"Grace!" he said. 

"I asked if you were sure of that, " answered Grace, coloring. "I amnot. "

CHAPTER XXXV - In the Pit

The next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual. There wereseveral things he wished to do in these last two days. He had heard thatthe managers had entered into negotiations with a new engineer, and hewished the man to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, and the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt morehopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly. 

He remembered afterward that, as he stepped into the cage, he turned tolook at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the winter'ssun; and that, as he went down, he glanced up at the sky and marked howintense appeared the bit of blue, which was framed in by the mouth ofthe shaft. 

Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting the rumor ofwhat he had said and done had been bruited about. Some collier had heardit and had told it to his comrades, and so it had gone from one to theother. It had been talked over at the evening and morning meal in diverscottages, and many an anxious woman had warmed into praise of the manwho had "had a thowt for th' men. "

In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men awaitinghim, --a group of burly miners with picks and shovels over theirshoulders, --and the head of this deputation, a spokesman burlier andgenerally gruffer than the rest, stopped him. 

"Mester, " he said, "we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'. "

"All right, " was Derrick's reply, "I am ready to listen. "

The rest crowded nearer as if anxious to participate as much aspossible, and give their spokesman the support of their presence. 

"It is na mich as we ha' getten to say, " said the man, "but we're fainto say it. Are na we, mates?"

"Ay, we are, lad, " in chorus. 

"It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd some on uslast neet, as yo'd getten th' sack fro' th' managers--or leastways asyo'd turned th' tables on 'em an' gi'en them th' sack yo'rsen. An' we'nheerd as it begun wi' yo're standin' up fur us chaps--axin fur thingsas wur wanted i' th' pit to save us fro' runnin' more risk than we need. An' we heerd as yo' spoke up bold, an' argied fur us an' stood to whatyo' thowt war th' reet thing, an' we set our moinds on tellin' yo' aswe'd heerd it an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanksi' common fur th' pluck yo' showed. Is na that it, mates?"

"Ay, that it is, lad!" responded the chorus. 

Suddenly one of the group stepped out and threw down his pick. 

"An' I'm dom'd, mates, " he said, "if here is na a chap as 'ud loike toshake hands wi' him. "

It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. They crowded abouttheir champion, thrusting grimy paws into his hand, grasping it almostenthusiastically. 

"Good luck to yo', lad!" said one. "We'n noan smooth soart o' chaps, butwe'n stand by what's fair an' plucky. We shall ha' a good word fur theewhen tha hast made thy flittin'. "

"I'm glad of that lads, " responded Derrick, heartily, by no meansunmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. "I only wish I hadhad better luck, that's all. "

A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to its veryfoundations, by something like an earthquake, accompanied by an ominous, booming sound which brought people flocking out of their houses, withwhite faces. Some of them had heard it before--all knew what itmeant. From the colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking andwailing, --women who bore children in their arms and had older onesdragging at their skirts, and who made their desperate way to the pitwith one accord. From houses and workshops there rushed men, who, comingout in twos and threes joined each other, and, forming a breathlesscrowd, ran through the streets scarcely daring to speak a word--and allran toward the pit. 

There were scores at its mouth in five minutes; in ten minutes therewere hundreds, and above all the clamor rose the cry of women:

"My Mester's down!"

"An' mine!"

"An' mine!"

"Four lads o' mine is down!"

"Three o' mine!"

"My little un's theer--th' youngest--nobbut ten year owd--nobbut tenyear owd, poor little chap! an' on'y been at work a week!"

"Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'--God ha' mercy!" And then moreshrieks and wails in which the terror-stricken children joined. 

It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in the noisomedarkness below, God only knew! How many lay mangled and crushed, waitingfor their death, Heaven only could tell!

In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure inclerical garb made its way through the crowd with an air of exciteddetermination. 

"The Parson's feart, " was the general comment. 

"My men, " he said, raising his voice so that all could hear, "can any ofyou tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick?"

There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a collier who stoodnear. 

"I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago, " he said, "I wur th' last as coomup, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick wur wi' his men i' th'new part o' th' mine. I seed him as I passed through. "

Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no more inquiries. 

His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom at thatvery moment. He stepped a little farther forward. 

"Unfortunately for myself, at present, " he said, "I have no practicalknowledge of the nature of these accidents. Will some of you tell me howlong it will be before we can make our first effort to rescue the menwho are below?"

Did he mean to volunteer--this young whipper-snapper of a parson? And ifhe did, could he know what he was doing?

"I ask you, " he said, "because I wish to offer myself as a volunteer atonce; I think I am stronger than you imagine and at least my heart willbe in the work. I have a friend below, --my-self, " his voice altering itstone and losing its firmness, --"a friend who is worthy the sacrifice often such lives as mine if such a sacrifice could save him. "

One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up. Under an hour itwould be impossible to make the attempt--it might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might, at least, make their first effort. 

If such was the case, the Parson said, the intervening period must beturned to the best account. In that time much could be thought of anddone which would assist themselves and benefit the sufferers. He calledupon the strongest and most experienced, and almost without theirrecognizing the prominence of his position, led them on in the work. Heeven rallied the weeping women and gave them something to do. One wassent for this necessary article and another for that. A couple of boyswere despatched to the next village for extra medical assistance, sothat there need be no lack of attention when it was required. He tookoff his broadcloth and worked with the rest of them until all thenecessary preparations were made and it was considered possible todescend into the mine. 

When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft and took his placequietly. 

It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would stare themin the face all through its performance. There was choking after-dampbelow, noxious vapors, to breathe which was to die; there was the chanceof crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries--and yet these menleft their companions one by one and ranged themselves, without saying aword, at the Curate's side. 

"My friends, " said Grace, baring his head, and raising a feminine hand. "My friends, we will say a short prayer. "

It was only a few words. Then the Curate spoke again. 

"Ready!" he said. 

But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished crowd agirl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was no touch of fearupon it. 

"I ax yo', " she said, "to let me go wi' yo' and do what I con. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"

There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their outcry tolook at her as she stood apart from them, --a desperate appeal in thevery quiet of her gesture as she turned to look about her for some oneto speak. 

"Lasses, " she said again. "Some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"

There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmurwas a cry. 

"Ay, " they answered, "we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her go, lads! She'sworth two o' th' best on yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if shewill, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee!"

But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank fromgiving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking--the coarserelement in others rebelled against it. 

"We'n ha' no wenches, " these said, surlily. 

Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently onthe shoulder. 

"We cannot think of it, " he said. "It is very brave and generous, and--God bless you!--but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing itmyself, if the rest would. "

"Parson, " said Joan coolly, but not roughly, "tha'd ha' hard work tohelp thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'. "

"But, " he protested, "it may be death. I could not bear the thought ofit. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life. "

She turned to the volunteers. 

"Lads, " she cried, passionately, "yo' munnot turn me back. I--sin Imun tell yo'----" and she faced them like a queen, --"theer's a mon downtheer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save. "

They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer. 

"Tak' thy place, wench, " said the oldest of them. "If tha mun, tha mun. "

She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she halfturned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and theyfound themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit ofdeath, she spoke to him. 

"Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray, " she said. "Pray that if we mundee, we may na dee until we ha' done our work. "

It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do in those blackgalleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest, most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in her wake, found himself obeying her slightestword or gesture. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, had guessed the truth. He knew that they were both engaged in thesame quest. When at last they had worked their way--lifting, helping, comforting--to the end of the passage where the collier had said he lastsaw the master then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, witha thrill of pity, touched her to attract her attention. 

"Let me go first, " he said. 

"Nay, " she answered, "we'n go together. "

The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly shaken. Insome places the props had been torn away, in others they were borne downby the loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the "Davy" Joan held upshowed such a wreck that Grace spoke to her again. 

"You must let me go first, " he said, with gentle firmness. "If one ofthese blocks should fall----"

Joan interrupted him, --

"If one on 'em should fall I'm th' one as it had better fall on. Thereis na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha' work o' yo're own todo. "

She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he could onlyfollow her. She went before, holding the Davy high, so that its lightmight be thrown as far forward as possible. Now and then she was forcedto stoop to make her way around a bending prop; sometimes there was afallen mass to be surmounted, but she was at the front still when theyreached the other end without finding the object of their search. 

"It--he is na there, " she said. "Let us try th' next passage, " and sheturned into it. 

It was she who first came upon what they were looking for; but they didnot find it in the next passage, or the next, or even the next. It wasfarther away from the scene of the explosion than they had dared tohope. As they entered a narrow side gallery, Grace heard her utter a lowsound, and the next minute she was down upon her knees. 

"Theer's a mon here, " she said, "It's him as we're lookin' fur. "

She held the dim little lantern close to the face, --a still face withclosed eyes, and blood upon it Grace knelt down too, his heart achingwith dread. 

"Is he------" he began, but could not finish. 

Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast andwaited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own face, white as thewounded man's--white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears. 

"He is na dead, " she said. "We ha' saved him. "

She sat down upon the floor of the gallery and lifting his head laid itupon her bosom, holding it close as a mother might hold the head of herchild. 

"Mester, " she said, "gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou thy Davy an'go fur some o' th' men to help us get him to th' leet o' day. I'm goneweak at last. I conna do no more. I'll go wi' him to th' top. "

When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load ofsufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by the goldenwinter's sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face. 

She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man upon her knee. A great shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders. 

She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and blanketsprepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who had hurried tothe spot to see what could be done. 

"He is na dead, " she said. "Lay yo're hond on his heart. It beats yet, Mester, --on'y a little, but it beats. "

"No, " said the doctor, "he is not dead--yet, " with a breath's pausebetween the two last words. "If some of you will help me to put him on astretcher, he may be carried home, and I will go with him. There is justa chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where does he live?"

"He must go with me, " said Grace. "He is my friend. "

So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and watched themcarry him away, --watched the bearers until they were out of sight, and then turned again and joined the women in their work among thesufferers. 

CHAPTER XXXVI - Alive Yet

In the bedroom above the small parlor a fire was burning at midnight, and by this fire Grace was watching. The lamp was turned low and theroom was very quiet; a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound. When a moan or a movement of the patient broke the stillness--which wasonly at rare intervals--the Curate rose and went to the bedside. Butit was only to look at the sufferer lying upon it, bandaged andunconscious. There was very little he could do. He could follow theinstructions given by the medical man before he went away, but these hadbeen few and hurried, and he could only watch with grief in his heart. There was but a chance that his friend's life might be saved. Closeattention and unremitting care might rescue him, and to the best of hisability the Curate meant to give him both. But he could not help feelinga deep anxiety. His faith in his own skill was not very great, and therewere no professional nurses in Riggan. 

"It is the care women give that he needs, " he said once, standing nearthe pillow and speaking to himself. "Men cannot do these things well. Amother or sister might save him. "

He went to the window and drew back the curtain to look out upon thenight. As he did so, he saw the figure of a woman nearing the house. Asshe approached, she began to walk more slowly, and when she reachedthe gates she hesitated, stopped and looked up. In a moment it becameevident that she saw him, and was conscious that he saw her. The dimlight in the chamber threw his form into strong relief. She raised herhand and made a gesture. He turned away from the window, left the roomquietly, and went down-stairs. She had not moved, but stood at the gateawaiting him. She spoke to him in a low tone, and he distinguished inits sound a degree of physical exhaustion. 

"Yo' saw me, " she said. "I thowt yo' did though I did na think o' yo'bein' at th' winder when I stopped--to--to see th' leet. "

"I am glad I saw you, " said Grace. "You have been at work among the menwho were hurt?"

"Ay, " pulling at a bush of evergreen nervously, and scattering theleaves as she spoke. "Theer's scarce a house o' th' common soart i'Riggan as has na trouble in it. "

"God help them all!" exclaimed Grace, fervently. 

"Have you seen Miss Barholm?" he asked next. 

"She wur on th' ground i' ten minnits after th' explosion. She wurin th' village when it happent, an' she drove to th' pit. She's beenworkin' as hard as ony woman i' Riggan. She saw us go down th' mine, butshe did not see us come up. She wur away then wi' a woman as had a ladto be carried home dead. She would ha' come to _him_ but she knowed yo'were wi' him, an' theer wur them as needed her. When th' cages coom uptheer wur women as screamed an' held to her, an' throwed theirsens ontheir knees an' hid their faces i' her dress, an' i' her honds, as ifthey thowt she could keep th' truth fro' 'em. "

Grace trembled in his excitement. 

"God bless her! God bless her!" he said, again and again. 

"Where is she now?" he asked at length. 

"Theer wur a little chap as come up i' the last cageful--he wur hurtbad, an' he wur sich a little chap as it went hard wi' him. When th'doctor touched him he screamed an' begged to be let alone, an' she heerdan' went to him, an' knelt down an' quieted him a bit. Th' poor littlelad would na let go o' her dress; he held to it fur dear life, an'sobbed an' shivered and begged her to go wi' him an' howd his head onher lap while th' doctor did what mun be done. An' so she went, an'she's wi' him now. He will na live till day-leet, an' he keeps cryingout for th' lady to stay wi' him. "

There was another silence, and then Joan spoke:

"Canna yo' guess what I coom to say?"

He thought he could, and perhaps his glance told her so. 

"If I wur a lady, " she said, her lips, her hands trembling, "I could naax yo' what I've made up my moind to; but I'm noan a lady, an' it doesna matter. If yo' need some one to help yo' wi' him, will yo' let me ha'th' place? I dunnot ax nowt else but--but to be let do th' hard work. "

She ended with a sob. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, weeping wildly. 

"Don't do that, " he said, gently. "Come with me. It is you he needs. "

He led the way into the house and up the stairs, Joan following him. When they entered the room they went to the bedside. 

The injured man lay motionless. 

"Is theer loife i' him yet?" asked Joan. "He looks as if theer might nabe. "

"There is life in him, " Grace answered; "and he has been a strong man, so I think we may feel some hope. "

CHAPTER XXXVII - Watching and Waiting

The next morning the pony-carriage stopped before the door of theCurate's lodgings. When Grace went downstairs to the parlor, AniceBarholm turned from the window to greet him. The appearance of physicalexhaustion he had observed the night before in Joan Lowrie, he saw againin her, but he had never before seen the face which Anice turned towardhim. 

"I was on the ground yesterday, and saw you go down into the mine, " shesaid. "I had never thought of such courage before. "

That was all, but in a second he comprehended that this morning theystood nearer together than they had ever stood before. 

"How is the child you were with?" he asked. 

"He died an hour ago. "

When they went upstairs, Joan was standing by the sick man. 

"He's worse than he wur last neet, " she said. "An' he'll be worse still. I ha' nursed hurts like these afore. It'll be mony a day afore he'll bebetter--if th' toime ivver comes. "

The Rector and Mrs. Barholm, hearing of the accident, and leavingBrowton hurriedly to return home, were met by half a dozen differentversions on their way to Riggan, and each one was so enthusiasticallyrelated that Mr. Barholm's rather dampened interest in his daughter'sprotégé was fanned again into a brisk flame. 

"There must be something in the girl, after all, " he said, "if one couldonly get at it. Something ought to be done for her, really. "

Hearing of Grace's share in the transaction, he was simply amazed. 

"I think there must be some mistake, " he said to his wife. "Grace is notthe man--not the man _physically_" straightening his broad shoulders, "to be equal to such a thing. "

But the truth of the report forced itself upon him after hearing thestory repeated several times before they reached Riggan, and arriving athome they heard the whole story from Anice. 

While Anice was talking, Mr. Barholm began to pace the floor of the roomrestlessly. 

"I wish I had been there, " he said. "I would have gone down myself. "

(It is true: he would have done so. )

"You are a braver man than I took you for, " he said to his Curate, when he saw him, --and he felt sure that he was saying exactly the rightthing. "I should scarcely have expected such dashing heroism from you, Grace. "

"I hardly regarded it in that light, " said the little gentleman, coloring sensitively. "If I had, I should scarcely have expected it ofmyself. "

The fact that Joan Lowrie had engaged herself as nurse to the injuredengineer made some gossip among her acquaintances at first, but thissoon died out. Thwaite's wife had a practical enough explanation of thecase. 

"Th' lass wur tired o' pit-work; an' no wonder. She's made up her moindto ha' done wi' it; an' she's a first-rate one to nurse, --strong i' thearms, an' noan sleepy-headed. Happen she'll tak' up wi' it fur a trade. As to it bein' _him_ as she meant when she said theer wur a mon as shemeant to save, it wur no such thing. Joan Lowrie's noan th' kind o'wench to be runnin' after gentlefolk, --yo' know that yoresens. It's noano' our business who the mon wur. Happen he's dead; an' whether he's deador alive, you'd better leave him a-be, an' her too. "

In the sick man's room the time passed monotonously. There were daysand nights of heavy slumber or unconsciousness, --restless mutterings andweary tossings to and fro. The face upon the pillow was sometimes white, sometimes flushed with fever; but whatever change came to pass, Deathnever seemed far away. 

Grace lost appetite, and grew thin with protracted anxiety and watching. He would not give up his place even to Anice or Mrs. Barholm, who spentmuch of their time in the house. He would barely consent to snatch a fewminutes' rest in the day-time; in truth, he could not have slept if hewould. Joan held to her post unflinchingly. She took even less respitethan Grace. Having almost forced her to leave the room one morning, Anice went downstairs to find her lying upon the sofa, --her handsclasped under her head, her eyes wide open. 

"I conna sleep yet a while, " she said. "Dunnot let it trouble yo'. I'mused to it. "

Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow eyes following heras she moved about the room, and fixed hungrily upon her when she stoodnear him. 

"Who are you?" he would say. "I have seen you before, and I know yourface; but--but I have lost your name. Who are you?"

One night, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the room, --Gracehaving gone downstairs for something, --she was startled by the sound ofDerrick's voice falling with a singular distinctness upon the silence. 

"Who is it that is standing there?" he said. 

"Do I know you? Yes--it is-----" but before he could finish, themomentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had wandered offagain into low, disjointed murmurings. 

It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. Therewas something he must do or say, --some decision he must reach. Must hegive up? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go away, --far away. Yes; he had better go. No, --he could not, --he must wait and think again. He was tired of thinking, --tired of reasoning and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour of rest. He wasfull of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after a briefsilence, he would begin again and go the weary round once more. 

"He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late, --too muchresponsibility, " said the medical man; "and it is going rather againsthim. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII - Recognition

The turning-point was reached at last. One evening, at the close of hisusual visit, the doctor said to Grace:

"To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. I should not besurprised to find on my next visit that his mind had become permanentlycleared. The intervals of half consciousness have become lengthened. Unless some entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that theworst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't let the youngwoman leave the room. "

That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange experience throughwhich these two passed together. If Anice had not known the truthbefore, she would have learned it then. Again and again Derrick went theendless round of his miseries. How must it end? How could it end? Whatmust he do? How black and narrow the passages were! There she was, coming toward him from the other end, --and if the props gave way------!They _were_ giving way!--Good God! the light was out, and he was heldfast by the mass which had fallen upon him. What must he do about herwhom he loved, and who was separated from him by this horrible wall? Hewas dying, and she would never know what he wanted to tell her. What wasit that he wanted to say, --That he loved her, --loved her, --loved her!Could she hear him? He must make her hear him before he died, --"Joan!Joan!"

Thus he raved hour after hour; and the two sat and listened, often indead silence; but at last there rose in Joan Lowrie's face a look ofsuch intense and hopeless pain, that Anice spoke. 

"Joan! my poor Joan!" she said. 

Joan's head sank down upon her hands. 

"I mun go away fro' Riggan, " she whispered. "I mun go away afore heknows. Theer's no help fur me. "

"No help?" repeated Anice after her. 

She did not understand. 

"Theer's none, " said Joan. "Dunnot yo' see as ony place wheer he is conbe no place fur me? I thowt--I thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, butit is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong?"

Anice wrung her hands together. 

"A wrong?" she cried. "Not a wrong, Joan--I cannot let you call itthat. "

"It would na be nowt else. Am _I_ fit wife fur a gentlemon? Nay, mywork's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' dayto-morrow morning, it's done then. "

"You do not mean, " said Anice, "that you will leave us?"

"I conna stay i' Riggan; I mun go away. "

Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less untilhis voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace, coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look ofintense relief. 

"The worst is over, " he said; "now we may hope for the best. "

"Ay, " Joan answered, quietly, "th' worst is ower--fur him. "

At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and then the graysky showed long slender streaks of wintry red, gradually widening anddeepening until all the east seemed flushed. 

"It's mornin', " said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. "I mungi' him th' drops again. "

She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlightpoured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep toa full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his deliriumhad died out; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he hadno power to speak and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. Itseemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it. 

"He's awake, " Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on the otherside of the room. "Will one on yo' pour out th' medicine? My hand's noansteady. "

Grace went to the bedside hurriedly. 

"Derrick, " he said, bending down, "do you know me?"

"Yes, " Derrick answered in a faltering whisper, and as he said it thebedroom door closed. Both of them heard it. A shadow fell upon the sickman's face. His eyes met his friend's with a question in them, and thenext instant the question put itself into words:

"Who--went out?"

Grace bent lower. 

"It was Joan Lowrie. "

He closed his eyes and waited a little as if to gain fresh strength. There rose a faint flush upon his hollow cheeks and his mouth trembled. 

"How"--he said next--"how--long?"

"You mean to ask me, " said Grace, "how long she has been here?"

A motion of assent. 

"She has been here from the first. "

He asked no further questions. His eyes closed once more and he laysilent. 

CHAPTER XXXIX - A Testimonial

Joan went back to her lodgings at the Thwaites' and left Mrs. Barholmand Anice to fill her place. 

Too prostrate to question his nurses, Derrick could only lie with closedeyes helpless and weary. He could not even keep himself awake longenough to work his way to any very clear memories of what had happened. He had so many half recollections to tantalize him. He could rememberhis last definite sensation, --a terrible shock flinging him to theground, a second of pain and horror, and then utter oblivion. Had heawakened one night and seen Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and calledout to her, and then lost himself? Had he awakened for a second or soagain and seen her standing close to his pillow, looking down at himwith an agony of dread in her face?

In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she had been withhim from the first How had it happened? This he asked himself again andagain, until he grew feverish over it. 

"Above all things, " he heard the doctor say, "don't let him talk anddon't talk to him. "

But Grace comprehended something of his mental condition. 

"I see by your look that you wish to question me, " he said to him. "Havepatience for a few days and then I will answer every question you mayask. Try to rest upon that assurance. "

There was one question, however, which would not wait. Grace saw itlying in the eager eyes and answered it. 

"Joan Lowrie, " he said, "has gone home. "

Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. The childrencrowded about her, neighbors dropped in, both men and women wanting tohave a word with her. There were few of them who had not met with someloss by the ex-plosion, and there were those among them who had cause toremember the girl's daring. 

"How's th' engineer?" they asked. "What do th' doctors say o' him?"

"He'll get better, " she answered. "They say as he's out o' danger. "

"Wur na it him as had his head on yo're knee when yo' come up i' th'cage?" asked one woman. 

Mrs. Thwaite answered for her with some sharpness. They should notgossip about Joan, if she could help it. 

"I dunnot suppose as she knowd th' difference betwixt one mon an'another, " she said. "It wur na loikely as she'd pick and choose. Let th'lass ha' a bit o' quoiet, wenches. Yo' moither her wi' yo're talk. "

"It's an ill wind as blows nobody good, " said Thwaite himself. "Th'explosion has done one thing--it's made th' mesters change their minds. They're i' th' humor to do what th' engineer axed fur, now. "

"Ay, " said a tired-looking woman, whose poor attempt at mourning toldits own story; "but that wunnot bring my mester back. "

"Nay, " said another, "nor my two lads. "

There had been a great deal of muttered discontent among the colliersbefore the accident, and since its occurrence there had been signsof open rebellion. Then, too, results had proved that the seasonableadoption of Derrick's plan would have saved some lives at least, and, in fact, some future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, feltsomewhat remorseful; a few, it is not impossible, experienced nothingmore serious than annoyance and embarrassment, but it is certainthat there were one or two who were crushed by a sense of personalresponsibility for what had occurred. 

It was one of these who made the proposition that Derrick's plan beaccepted unreservedly, and that the engineer himself should be requestedto resume his position and undertake the management of the work. Therewas some slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recentthat its effect had not had time to wear away, and finally the agreementwas made. 

But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bedroom over theparlor, and the deputation from the company could only wait upon Grace, and make an effort at expressing their sympathy. 

After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. There wassome curiosity felt concerning her. A young and handsome woman, who hadtaken so remarkable a part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object ofinterest. 

Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that somethingreally ought to be done, that a visit to the heroine of the day was theimmediate result. There was only one form the appreciation of a higherfor a lower social grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who hadbeen, naturally, selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan the natureof the visit. His friends of the Company had heard the story of herremarkable heroism, and had felt that something was due to her--sometoken of the admiration her conduct had inspired in them. They hadagreed that something ought to be done, and they had called this eveningto present her with a little testimonial. 

The bundle of crisp bank-notes burned the hand of the man who held them, as Joan Lowrie listened to this speech. She stood upright before them, resting one hand upon the back of a chair, but when the bearer of thetestimonial in question rose, she made a step forward. There was moreof her old self in her gesture than she had shown for months. Her eyesflashed, her face hardened, a sudden red flew to her cheek. 

"Put it up, " she said. "I wunnot tak' it. "

The man who had the money laid it upon the table, as if he were anxiousto be rid of it He was in a glow of anger and shame at the false stepthey had made. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I see we have made a mistake. "

"Ay, " she said, "yo' ha' made a mistake. If yo' choose to tak' that an'gi'e it to th' women an' childer as is left to want bread, yo' may do itan' welcome. "

CHAPTER XL - Going South

The first day Fergus Derrick was allowed to spend an hour in aneasy-chair by the fire, he heard the story of his rescue from thelips of his friend, listening to it as he rested against the proppingcushions. 

"Don't be afraid of exciting me, " he had said to Grace. "I haveconjectured until I am tired of it. Tell me the whole story. Let me hearthe end _now_. "

Derrick's breath came quick and short as he listened, and his haggardface flushed. It was not only to his friend he owed his life, but toJoan Lowrie. 

"I should like to see her, " he said when Grace had finished. "As foryou, Grace--well--words are poor things. "

"They are very poor things between friends, " was Grace's answer; "solet us have none of them. You are on this side of the grave, dearfellow--that is enough. "

During the rest of the day Derrick was silent and abstracted, butplainly full of active thought. 

By nightfall a feverish spot burned upon his cheek, and his pulse hadquickened dangerously. 

"I must wait, " he said to Grace, "and it is hard work. "

Just at that time Anice was sitting in her room at the Rectory, thinkingof Joan also, when there came to her the sound of footsteps in thepassage and then a summons to the door. 

"You may come in, " she said. 

But it was not a servant, as she had supposed; it was Joan, with abundle upon her arm. 

"You are going away, Joan?" she said. "Tonight?"

"Ay, " Joan answered, as she came and stood upon the hearth. "I'm goin'away to-neet. "

"You have quite made up your mind?"

"Ay, " said Joan. "I mun break loose. I want to get as far fro' th' owdlife as I con. I'd loike to forget th' most on it. I'm goin' to-neet, because I dunnot want to be axed questions. If I passed thro' th' townby day-leet, theer's them as ud fret me wi' their talk. "

"Have you seen Mr. Grace?" Anice asked. 

"No. I shanna ha' th' chance to say good-by to him. I coom partly to axyo' to say it fur me. "

"Yes, I will say it I wish there were no need that I should, though. Iwish I could keep you. "

There was a brief silence. Joan knelt on one knee by the fender. 

"I ha' bin thinkin' o' Liz, " she said. "I thowt I'd ax yo'--if it wur tohappen so as she'd drift back here agen while I wur away--as yo'd saya kind word to her, an' tell her about th' choild, an' how as I nivverthowt hard on her, an' as th' day nivver wur as I did na pity her fro'th' bottom o' my soul. I'm goin' toward th' south, " she said again aftera while. "They say as th' south is as different fro' th' north as th'day is fro' the neet. I ha' money enow to help me on, an' when I stop Ishall look fur work. "

Anice's face lighted up suddenly. 

"To the south!" she said. "Why did I not think of that before? If you gotoward the south, there is Ashley-Wold and grandmamma, Mrs. Galloway. Iwill write to her now, if you will let me, " rising to her feet. 

"If yo'll gi' me th' letter, I'll tak' it an' thank yo', " said Joan. "Ifshe could help me to work or th' loike, I should be glad enow. "

Anice's mother's mother had always been her safest resource in the past, and yet, curiously enough, she had not thought of turning toward her inthis case until Joan's words had suggested such a course. 

Joan took the letter and put it in the bosom of her dress. 

"Theer's no more danger fur _him?_" she said. "Thwaite towd me he wurbetter. "

She spoke questioningly, and Anice answered her--

"Yes, he is out of danger. Joan, what am I to say to him?"

"To say to him!"

She started slightly, but ended with a strained quietness of manner. 

"Theer's nowt to say, " she added, rising, and preparing to go. 

Anice rose also. She held out both her hands, and Joan took them. 

"I will go downstairs with you, " said Anice; and they went out together. 

When they reached the front door, they kissed each other, and Anicestood in the lighted hall and watched the girl's departure. 

"Good-by!" she said; "and God bless you!"

Early in the morning, Derrick called his friend to his bedside. 

"I have had a bad night, " he said to him. 

"Yes, " Grace answered. "It is easy enough to see that. "

There was an unnatural sparkle in the hollow eyes, and the flush uponthe cheek had not faded away. 

Derrick tried to laugh, and moved restlessly upon his pillow. 

"So I should imagine, " said he. "The fact is--well you see I have beenthinking. "

"About--"

"Yes--yes--Grace, I cannot wait--I must hear something. A hundred thingsmight happen. I must at least be sure she is not far away. I shall neverregain strength as long as I have not the rest that knowledge will bringme. Will you go to her and take her a few words of gratitude from me?"

"Yes, readily. "

"Will you go now?"

"Yes. "

Grace would have left the room, but Derrick stretched out his hand andtouched him. 

"Stay--" he said. 

Grace turned to him again. 

"You know"--in the old resolute way--"you know what I mean the end tobe, if it may be?"

"I think I do. "

Grace appeared at the Rectory very soon afterward, and asked for MissBarholm. Anice came down into the parlor to meet him at once. She couldnot help guessing that for some reason or other he had come to speak ofJoan, and his first words confirmed her impression. 

"I have just left the Thwaites', " he said. "I went there to see JoanLowrie, and find that she is not there. Mrs. Thwaite told me that shehad left Riggan. Is that true?"

"Yes. She went away last night She came here to bid me good-by, andleave a farewell message for you. "

Grace was both troubled and embarrassed. 

"I----" he faltered. "Do _you_ understand it?"

"Yes, " Anice answered. 

Their eyes met, and she went on:

"You know we have said that it was best that she should break awayentirely from the past. She has gone to try if it is possible to do it. She wants another life altogether. "

"I do not know what I must do, " said Grace. "You say she has gone away, and I--I came to her from Derrick. "

"From Mr. Derrick!" Anice exclaimed; and then both relapsed intosilence. 

It was Anice who spoke first

"Mamma was going to send some things to Mr. Derrick this morning, " shesaid. "I will have the basket packed and take it myself. If you will letme, I will go with you as soon as I can have the things prepared. "

CHAPTER XLI - "A Soart o' Pollygy"

The interview between Anice and Derrick was a long one. At the endDerrick said:

"I shall go to Ashley-Wold. "

Grace had been called out almost immediately after his return to thehouse; but on his way home he met Anice, and having something to sayabout the school, he turned toward the Rectory with her. 

They had not gone far, however, before they were joined by a thirdparty, --Mr. Sammy Craddock, who was wending his way Crownward. Seeingthem, Mr. Craddock hesitated for a moment, as if feeling somewhatdoubtful; but as they approached him, he pulled off his hat. "I dunnotknow, " he said, "after aw, if it would not be as well to ha' a witness. Hope yo're nicely, Miss, " affably; "an' th' same to yo', Parson. Wouldyo'" clearing his throat, "would yo' moind shakin' honds wi' a chap?"

Grace gave him his hand. 

"Thank yo', Parson, " said "Owd Sammy. " "It's th' first toime, yo' know, but it shanna be th' last, if yo' dnnnot see owt agen it. Th' truth is, as it's summat as has been on my moind for some toime, --ivver sin' th'accident, i' fact. Pluck's pluck, yo' see, whether yo're for a mon oragen him. Yo're not mich to look at. Yo' mowt be handsomer, an' yo' mowtbe likelier, --yo' mowt easily ha' more muscle, an' yo' dnnnot look asif yo' wnr like to be mich i' argyment; but yo're getten a backbone o'yo're own, --I'm danged if yo' ha' na. "

"I'm much obliged to you, I am sure, " said Grace. 

"Yo' need na be, " answered Sammy, encouragingly. "Yo' need na be. Ifyo'd getten owt to be obleeged to me fur, I should na ha' so mich tosay. Yo' see I'm makin' a soart o' pollygy, --a soart o' pollygy, " withevident enjoyment of the word. "An' that's why I said as it mowt be aswell to ha' a witness. I wur allus one as set more store by th' Statethan th' Church, an' parsons wur na i' my line, an' happen I ha' ben abit hard on yo', an' ha' said things as carried weight agen yo' wi' themas valleyed my opinion o' things i' general. An' sin' th' blow-up, I ha'made up my moind as I would na moind tellin' yo' as I wur agoin' tow'draw my oppysition, sin' it seemit as if I'd made a bit o' a mistake. Yo're neyther knave nor foo', if yo' are a parson. Theer now!Good-mornin' to yo'!"

"Noan on 'em con say as I wur na fair, " Owd Sammy said to himself, ashe went on his way shaking his head, "I could na ha' done no fairer. Hedesarved a bit o' commendation, an' I let him ha' it. Be fair wi a mon, say I, parson or no. An' he is na th' wrong sort, after aw. "

He was so well pleased with himself, that he even carried his virtueinto The Crown, and diffused it abroad over his pint of sixpenny. Hefound it not actually unpleasant to display himself as a magnate, who, having made a most natural mistake, had been too independent andstraightforward to let the matter rest, and consequently had gone to themagnificent length of apologetic explanation. 

"I ha' bin havin' a word or so wi' th' little Parson, " he said. "I ha'ben tellin' him what I thowt o' what he did th' day o' th' blow-up. Ichanged my moind about th' little chap that day, an' I ha' ben tellin'him so. "

"Yo' ha'?" in an amazed chorus. "Well, now, that theer _wur_ a turn, Sammy. "

"Ay, it wur. I'm noan afeard to speak my moind one way or t'other, yo'see. When a mon shows as he's med o' th' reet cloth, I am na afeard totell him I loike th' web. "

CHAPTER XLII - Ashley-Wold

Two weeks after Joan left Riggan, she entered the village of Ashley-Woldon foot. With the exception of a few miles here and there, when afriendly wagoner had offered her a lift, she had made all her journey inthis manner. She had met with discouragement and disappointment. She hadnot fancied that it would be an easy matter to find work, though shehad expressed no doubt to Anice, but it was even a more difficult matterthan she had imagined. At some places work was not to be had, in othersthe fact that she was an utter stranger went against her. 

It was evening when she came to Ashley-Wold; the rain was falling softand slowly, and the air was chill. She was cold, and faint with hunger. The firelight that shone through the cottage windows brought to her anacute sense of her bodily weariness through its suggestion of rest andcheerfulness. The few passers-by--principally men and women returningfrom their daily labor--glanced at her curiously. 

She had held to the letter as a last resource. When she could not helpherself she would ask for assistance, but not until then. Still she hadalways turned her face toward Ashley-Wold, Now she meant to go to Mrs. Galloway and deliver the letter. 

Upon entering the village she had stopped and asked a farmer fordirections. He had stared at her at first, hardly comprehending hernorthern dialect, but had finally understood and pointed out the house, whose gables could be seen from the road-side. 

So Joan made her way toward it through the evening rain and mist. Itwas a pretty place, with a quaint picturesqueness. A hedge, which wasa marvel of trimness, surrounded the garden, ivy clung to the walls andgables, and fancifully clipped box and other evergreens made a modestgreenery about it, winter though it was. At her first glance at thisgarden Joan felt something familiar in it. Perhaps Anice herself hadplanned some portion of it. Joan paused a moment and stood looking overthe hedge. 

Mrs. Galloway, sitting at her work-table near the window, had found herattention attracted a few moments before by a tall young woman comingdown the road which passed on one side of the hedge. 

"There is something a little remarkable about her, " she said. "Shecertainly does not belong to Ashley-Wold. "

Then Joan stopped by the hedge and she saw her face and uttered a lowexclamation of surprise at its beauty. She drew nearer to the window andlooked out at her. 

"She must be very cold, " said Mrs. Galloway. "She looks as if she hadmade a long journey. I will send Hollis to her. "

A few minutes later there tripped down the garden-walk a trimly attiredyoung housemaid. 

The mistress had seen her from the window and thought she looked coldand tired. Would she come into the house to rest?

Joan answered with a tinge of color on her cheek. She felt a little likea beggar. 

"Thank yo'; I'll come, " she said. "If th' mistress is Mrs. Galloway, Iha' a letter fur her fro' Lancashire. "

Mrs. Galloway met them on the threshold. 

"The young woman, ma'am, " said the servant, "has a letter fromLancashire. "

"From Lancashire!" said Mrs. Galloway. 

"Fro' Riggan, mistress, " said Joan. "Fro' Miss Anice. I'm Joan Lowrie. "

That Joan Lowrie was a name familiar to her was evident by the change inMrs. Galloway's face. A faint flush of pleasure warmed it, and she spokequickly. 

"Joan Lowrie!" she said. "My dear child's friend! Then I know you verywell. Come into the room, my dear. "

She led her into the room and closed the door. 

"You are very cold and your shawl is wet, " laying a kind hand upon it. "Give it to me, and take a seat by the fire. You must warm yourselfthoroughly and have a cup of tea, " she said, "and then I will begin toask questions. "

There was a wide, low-seated, low-armed, soft-cushioned chair at oneside of the fire, and in this chair she had made Joan seat herself. Thesudden change from the chill dampness of the winter day to the exquisiterelief and rest, almost overcame the girl. She was deadly pale when Mrs. Galloway ceased, and her lips trembled; she tried to speak, and for amoment could not; tears rushed to her eyes and stood in them. But shemanaged to answer at last. 

"I beg yo're pardon, " she said. "Yo' ha' no need to moind me. Th' warmthhas made me a bit faint, that's aw. I've noan been used to it lately. "

Mrs. Galloway came and stood near her. 

"I am sorry to hear that, my dear, " she said. 

"Yo're very kind, ma'am, " Joan answered. 

She drew the letter from her dress and handed it to her. 

"I getten that fro' Miss Anice the neet I left Riggan, " she said. 

When the tea was brought in and Joan had sat down, the old lady read theletter. 

"_Keep her with you if you can. Give her the help she needs most. Shehas had a hard life, and wants to forget it?_

"Now, I wonder, " said Mrs. Galloway to herself, "what the help is thatshe needs most?"

The rare beauty of the face impressed her as it invariably impressedstrangers, but she looked beneath the surface and saw something more init than its beauty. She saw its sadness, its resolution. 

When Joan rose from the table, the old lady was still standing with theletter in her hand. She folded it and spoke to her. 

"If you are sufficiently rested, I should like you to sit down and talkto me a little. I want to speak to you about your plans. "

"Then, " said Joan, "happen I'd better tell yo' at th' start as I ha'none. "

Mrs. Galloway put her hand upon her shoulder. 

"Then, " she returned, "that is all the better for me, for I have in mymind one of my own. You would like to find work to help you----"

"I _mun_ find work, " Joan interrupted, "or starve. "

"Of any kind?" questioningly. 

"I ha' worked at th' pit's mouth aw my life, " said Joan. "I need na bedainty, yo' see. "

Mrs. Galloway smoothed the back of the small, withered hand upon herknee with the palm of the other. 

"Then, perhaps, " she said slowly, "you will not refuse to accept myoffer and stay here--with me?"

"Wi' yo'?" Joan exclaimed. "I am an old woman, you see, " Mrs. Gallowayanswered. "I have lived in Ashley-Wold all my life, and have, as itwere, accumulated duties, and now as the years go by, I do not find itso easy to perform them as I used to. I need a companion who is youngand strong, and quick to understand the wants of those who suffer. Willyou stay here and help _me?_"

"Wi' yo'?" said Joan again. "Nay, " she cried; "nay--that is not fur me. I am na fit. "

On her way to her chamber some hours later Mrs. Galloway stopped at theroom which had been Anice's, and looked in upon her guest. But Joan wasnot asleep, as she had hoped to find her. She stood at the fireside, looking into the blaze. 

"Will you come here a minnit?" she said. 

She looked haggard and wearied, but the eyes she raised to her hostesswere resolute. 

"Theer's summat as I ha' held back fro' sayin' to yo', " she said, "an'th' more I think on it, th' more I see as I mun tell yo' if I meanto begin fair an' clear. I ha' a trouble as I'm fain to hide; it'sa trouble as I ha' fowt wi' an' ha' na helped mysen agen. It's na ashame, " straightening herself; "it's a trouble such as ony woman mightbear an' be honest. I coom away fro' Riggan to be out o' th' way onit--not to forget it, for I conna--but so as I should na be so nearto--to th' hurt on it. "

"I do not need another word, " Mrs. Galloway answered. "If you had chosento keep it a secret, it would have been your own secret as long as youchose that it should be so. There is nothing more you need? Very wellGood-night, my dear!"

CHAPTER XLIII - Liz Comes Back

"Miss, " said Mrs. Thwaite, "it wur last neet, an' you mowt ha' knockedme down wi' a feather, fur I seed her as plain as I see yo'. "

"Then, " said Anice, "she must be in Riggan now. "

"Ay, " the woman answered, "that she mun, though wheer, God knows, Idunnot. It wur pretty late, yo' see, an' I wur gettin' th' mester'ssupper ready, an' as I turns mysen fro' th' oven, wheer I had beenstoopin' down to look at th' bit o' bacon, I seed her face agen th'winder, starin' in at me wild loike. Ay, it wur her sure enow, poorwench! She wur loike death itsen--main different fro' th' bit o' a soft, pretty, leet-headed lass she used to be. "

"I will go and speak to Mr. Grace, " Anice said. 

The habit of referring to Grace was growing stronger every day. She methim not many yards away, and before she spoke to him saw that he was notignorant of what she had to say. 

"I think you know what I am going to tell you, " she said. 

"I think I do, " was his reply. 

The rumor had come to him from an acquaintance of the Maxys, and he hadmade up his mind to go to them at once. 

"Ay, " said the mother, regarding them with rather resentful curiosity, "she wur here this mornin'--Liz wur. She wur in a bad way enow--saidshe'd been out on th' tramp fur nigh a week--seemit a bit out o' herhead. Th' mon had left her again, as she mowt ha' knowed he would. Ay, lasses _is_ foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, bad o' th' fever. I towdher she'd better ha' stayed theer. She wanted to know wheer Joan Lowriewur, an' kept axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and towd herso. "

"Did she ask about her little child?" said Anice. 

"Ay, I think she did, if I remember reet. She said summat about wantin'to know wheer we'd put it, an' if Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seemto be th' choild she cared about so much as Joan Lowrie. "

"Did you tell her where we buried it?" Grace asked. 

"Ay. "

"Thank you. I will go to the church-yard, " he said to Anice. "I may findher there. "

"Will you let me go too?" Anice asked. 

He paused a moment

"I am afraid that it would be best that I should go alone. "

"Let me go, " she pleaded. "Don't be afraid for me. I could not stayaway. Let me go--for Joan's sake. "

So he gave way, and they passed out together. But they did not find herin the church-yard. The gate had been pushed open and hung swing-ing onits hinges. There were fresh footprints upon the damp clay of the paththat led to the corner where the child lay, and when they approachedthe little mound they saw that something had been dropped upon the grassnear it. It was a thin, once gay-colored, little red shawl. Anice bentdown and picked it up. "She has been here, " she said. 

It was Anice who, after this, first thought of going to the old cottageupon the Knoll Road. The afternoon was waning when they left thechurch-yard; when they came within sight of the cottage the sun had sunkbehind the hills. In the red, wintry light, the place looked terriblydesolate. Weeds had sprung up about the house, and their rank growthcovered the very threshold, the shutters hung loose and broken, and adamp greenness had crept upon the stone step. 

A chill fell upon her when they stood before the gate and saw what waswithin. Something besides the clinging greenness had crept upon thestep, --something human, --a homeless creature, who might have staggeredthere and fallen, or who might have laid herself there to die. It wasLiz, lying with her face downward and with her dead hand against theclosed door. 

CHAPTER XLIV - Not Yet

Mrs. Galloway arose and advanced to meet her visitor with a slightlypuzzled air. 

"Mr. ------" she began. 

"Fergus Derrick, " ended the young man. "From Riggan, madam. "

She held out her hand cordially. 

"Joan is in the garden, " she said, after a few moments of earnestconversation. "Go to her. "

It was a day very different from the one upon which Joan Lowrie hadcome to Ashley-Wold. Spring had set her light foot fairly upon the greenKentish soil. Farther north she had only begun to show her face timidly, but here the atmosphere was fresh and balmy, the hedges were buddingbravely, and there was a low twitter of birds in the air. The gardenAnice had so often tended was flushing into bloom in sunny corners, andthe breath of early violets was sweet in it. Derrick was conscious oftheir springtime odor as he walked down the path, in the direction Mrs. Galloway had pointed out. It was a retired nook where evergreens weregrowing, and where the violet fragrance was more powerful than anywhereelse, for the rich, moist earth of one bed was blue with them. Joan wasstanding near these violets, --he saw her as he turned into the walk, --amotionless figure in heavy brown drapery. 

She heard him and started from her revery. With another half-dozen stepshe was at her side. 

"Don't look as if I had alarmed you, " he said. "It seems such a poorbeginning to what I have come to say. "

Her hand trembled so that one or two of the loose violets she held fellat his feet. She had a cluster of their fragrant bloom fastened in thefull knot of her hair. The dropping of the flowers seemed to help herto recover herself. She drew back a little, a shade of pride in hergesture, though the color dyed her cheeks and her eyes were downcast. 

"I cannot--I cannot listen, " she said. 

The slight change which he noted in her speech touched him unutterably. It was not a very great change; she spoke slowly and uncertainly, andthe quaint northern burr still held its own, and here and there a wordbetrayed her effort. 

"No, no, " he said, "you will listen. You gave me back my life. You willnot make it worthless. If you cannot love me, " his voice shaking, "itwould have been less cruel to have left me where you found me--a deadman, --for whom all pain was over. "

He stopped. The woman trembled from head to foot. She raised her eyesfrom the ground and looked at him catching her breath. 

"Yo' are askin' me to be yo're wife!" she said. "Me!"

"I love you, " he answered. "_You_, and no other woman!"

She waited a moment and then turned suddenly away from him, and leanedagainst the tree under which they were standing, resting her face uponher arm. Her hand clung among the ivy leaves and crushed them. Her oldspeech came back in the quick hushed cry she uttered. 

"I conna turn yo' fro' me, " she said. "Oh! I conna!"

"Thank God! Thank God!" he cried. 

He would have caught her to his breast, but she held up her hand torestrain him. 

"Not yet, " she said, "not yet. I conna turn you fro' me, but theer'ssummat I must ask. Give me th' time to make myself worthy--give me th'time to work an' strive; be patient with me until th' day comes when Ican come to yo' an' know I need not shame yo'. They say I am na slow atlearnin'--wait and see how I can work for th' mon--for th' mon I love. "