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THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 IRVINE 
 
 GIFT OF 
 MRS. DOROTHY K.LIPTON 
 
SHE STEPPED INTO THE GALLERY BEFORE HE COULD PROTEST. 
 
THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1886 
 
COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO. 
 1877 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
 KEW YORK. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 rial 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A Difficult Case . . , 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 "Liz" 14 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Reverend Harold Barholm 26 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 " Love me, Love my Dog ". 39 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Outside the Hedge 46 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 Joan and the Child 57 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Auice at the Cottage 66 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 The Wager of Battle 69 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The News at the Rectory 78 
 
IT CONTENTS. 
 
 rim 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 On the Knoll Roal ............................................ 82 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Nib and his Master make a Call. ............................... 36 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 On Guard ................................................... 90 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Joan and the Picture .......................................... 96 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The open " Davy " ............................................ ll>4 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A Discovery .................................................. 11C 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 " Owd Sammy " in Trouble .................................... 115 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 The Member of Parliament ..................................... 125 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 A Confession of Faith .......................................... 130 
 
 J CHAPTER XIX. 
 Ribbons ................................................... ^ 133 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 The new Gate-keeper .......................................... 140 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Derrick's Question ........................... . ............. J46 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 Master Landsell's Son 
 
CONTENTS. i 
 
 PAOI 
 
 CHAPTER XXHL 
 ' Cannybles ". 157 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Dan Lowrie's Return 164 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 The old Danger 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 The Package returned 174 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 1. 
 Sammy Craddock'a " Mauny-ensis " 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 Warned 189 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 Lying in Wait 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 The Slip of Paper 109 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 The last Blow 2U3 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 " Turned Methody " 208 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 Fate 315 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 The Decision 219 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 In the Pit.., . 225 
 
vi CONTEXTS. 
 
 MM 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Alive Yet. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 Watching and Waiting f 13 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIL 
 Recognition 242 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 Testimonial 246 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 Going South 250 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 "A soart o' Pollygy" 255 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 Ashley-Wold 258 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 Li? comes Back 264 
 
 CHAPTER XUV. 
 NotYt. ,.981 
 
THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A DIFFICULT CASE. 
 
 THEY did not look like women, or at least a stranger 
 new to the district might easily have been misled by theii 
 appearance, as they stood together in a group, by the pit's 
 mouth. There were about a dozen of them there all 
 " pit-girls," as they were called ; women who wore a 
 dress more than half masculine, and who talked loudly 
 and laughed discordantly, and some of whom, God knows, 
 had faces as hard and brutal as the hardest of their col- 
 lier 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 heavy labor. It was not to be wondered 
 at that they had lost all bloom of womanly modesty and 
 gentleness. Their mothers had been "pit-girls" in their 
 time, their grandmothers in theirs ; they had been born 
 in coarse homes ; they had fared hardly, and worked hard ; 
 ihey had breathed in the dust and grime of coal, and, 
 somehow or other, it seemed to stick to them and reveal 
 itself in their natures as it did in their bold unwashed 
 faces. At first one shrank from them, but one's shrink 
 ing could not fail to change to pity. There was no ele- 
 1 
 
2 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 ment of softness to rule or eveu influence them in their 
 half savage existence. 
 
 On the particular evening of which I speak, the group 
 at the pit's mouth were evei^ more than usually noipy. 
 They were laughing, gossiping and joking, coarse 
 enough jokes, and now and then a listener might have 
 heard an oath flung out as if all were well used to the 
 sound. Most of them were young women, though there 
 were a few older ones among them, and the principal 
 figure in the group the center figure, about whom the 
 rest clustered was a young woman. But she differed 
 from the rest in two or three respects. The others 
 seemed somewhat stunted in growth ; she was tall enough 
 to be imposing. She was as roughly clad as the poorest 
 of them, but she wore her uncouth garb differently. The 
 man's jacket of fustian, open at the neck, bared a hand- 
 some sunbrowned throat. The man's hat shaded a face 
 with dark eyes that had a sort of animal beauty, and a 
 well-molded chin. It was at this girl that all the rough 
 jokes seemed to be directed. 
 
 " I'll tell thee, Joan," said one woman, " we'st ha' thee 
 Bweetheartin' wi' him afore th' month's out." 
 
 " Aye," laughed her fellows, " so we shall. Tha'st ha' 
 to turn soft after aw. Tha conna stond out again' th' 
 Lunnon chap. "We'st ha' thee sweetheartin', 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 amna ower fond o' men folk at no time. I've 
 had my fill on 'em ; and I'm noan loike to tak' up wi 1 
 such loike as this un. An' he's no an a Lunnoner neither. 
 He's on'y fro' th' South. An th' South is na Lunnon." 
 
 "He's getten' Lunnon ways tho'," put in another. 
 
A DIFFICULT CASE. 3 
 
 " Choppin' his words up an' mincin' 'em srna'. He'e 
 noan Lancashire, ony gowk could tell." 
 
 ''I dunnot see as he minces so," said Joan roughly. 
 " He dunnot speak our loike, but he's well enow i' hia 
 way." 
 
 A boisterous peal of laughter interrupted her. 
 
 "I thowt tha' ca'ed him a foo' a minute sin'," cried twc 
 or three voices at 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 to foiiid foo's. Foo' huntin's th' best sport out, 
 an' th' safest. Leave th' engineer alone an' leave me 
 alone too. It '11 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 notice of it. She took no notice of anything 
 not even of the two men who at that 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 
 Bee that is precisely it, 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, physically and mentally, and 
 yet it would have been a hard task to find two natures 
 more harmonious and sympathetic. Still most people 
 wondered at arid failed to comprehend their friendship. 
 The mild, nervous little Oxonian barely reached Derrick's 
 shoulder ; his finely cut face was singularly feminine and 
 innocent ; the mild eyes beaming from behind his small 
 spectacles had an absent, dreamy look. One could not 
 
4 THAT LASS 0' LOWItltfS. 
 
 fail to see at the first glance, that this refined, restless, 
 cons3ientions littie gentleman was hardly the person to 
 cope successfully with Riggan. Derrick strode by his side 
 iike a young son of Anak brains and muscle evenly 
 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 her childhood ; her mother was a pit girl until she 
 died of hard work, privation and ill treatment. Her 
 father is a collier and lives as most of them do drinking, 
 rioting, fighting. Their home is such a home as you have 
 seen dozens of since you came here ; the girl could not 
 better it if she tried, and would not know how to begin if 
 she felt inclined. She has borne, they tell me, such treat- 
 ment as would have killed most women. She has been 
 beaten, bruised, felled to the earth by this father of hers, 
 who is said to be a perfect fiend in his cups. And yet 
 she holds to her place in their wretched hovel, and makes 
 herself a slave to the fellow with a dogged, stubborn de- 
 termination.- What can I do with such 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, " with whom I have not conscientiously 
 tried to make friends, and there is scarcely one, I 
 think, with whom I have succeeded. Why can I not suc- 
 ceed ? Why do I always fail ? The fault must be with 
 myself " 
 
 " A mistake that at the outset," interposed Derrick 
 u There is no ' fault ' in the matter ; there is simply mis 
 
A DIFFICULT CASK. 5 
 
 fortune. Your parishioners are so unfortunate as not to 
 be able to understand you, and on your part you are so 
 unfortunate as to fail afc first to place yourself on the right 
 footing with them. I say ' at first,' you observe. Give 
 yourself time, Grace, and give them time too." 
 
 " Thank you," said the Reverend Paul. " But speak- 
 ing of this girl ' That lass o' Lewie's,' as she is always 
 called Joan I believe her name is. Joau Lowrie is, I 
 can assure you, a weight upon me. I cannot help her 
 and I cannot rid my mind of her. She stands apart from 
 her fellows. She has most of the faults of her class, but 
 none of their follies ; and she has the reputation of being 
 half feared, half revered. The man who dared to ap- 
 proach her with the coarse love-making which is the 
 fashion among them, would rue it to the last day of his 
 life. She seems to defy all the world." 
 
 " And it is impossible to win upon her ? " 
 
 " More than impossible. The first time I went to her 
 With sympathy, I felt myself a child in her hands. She 
 never laughed nor jeered at me as the rest do. She stood 
 before me like a rock, listening until I had finished speak- 
 ing. ' Parson,' she said, * if thal't leave me alone, I'll 
 leave thee alone,' and then turned about and walked into 
 the house. I am nothing but ' th' parson ' to these people, 
 and * th' parson ' is one for whom they have little respect 
 and no sympathy." 
 
 He was not far wrong. The stolid heavy-naturcd col- 
 liers openly looked down upon ' th' parson.' A ' bit of a 
 tvhipper snapper,' even the best-natured called him in 
 sovereign contempt for his insignificant physical propor- 
 tions. Truly the sensitive little gentleman's lines had not 
 fallen in pleasant places. And this was not all. There 
 was another source of discouragement with which he had 
 
6 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&S. 
 
 to batlle in secret, though of this he would have felt it 
 almost dishonor to complain. But Derrick's keen eyes had 
 seen it long ago, and, understanding it well, he sympa 
 thized with his friend accordingly. Yet, despite the 
 many rebuffs the curate had met with, he was not con- 
 quered by any means. His was not an easily subdued 
 nature, after all. He was very warm on the subject of 
 Joan Lowrie this evening so warm, indeed, that the in- 
 terest the mere sight of the girl had awakened in Der- 
 rick's mind was considerably heightened. They were still 
 speaking of her when they stopped before the door 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 feel all the better for a cup of Mrs. Bur- 
 nie's tea," pushing the hair back from 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 it was no*, until he 
 had thrown himself into the largest easy chgJir, that the 
 trim apartment seemed to regain its countenance. 
 
 Grace paused at the table, and with a sudden flush, took 
 up a letter that lay there among two or three '.ininteresting- 
 looking epistles. 
 
 " It is a note from Miss Anice," he said, ooming to the 
 hearth and applying his pen- knife in a gei tie way to the 
 small square envelope. 
 
 " Not a letter, Grace ? " said Derrick witL a smile. 
 
 " A letter ! Oh dear, no ! She has never written me a 
 letter. They are always notes with some sort of business 
 object. She has very decided views on the subject <4 
 miscellaneous letter-writing" 
 
A DIFFICULT CASE. 7 
 
 Ho read the note himself and then handed it to 
 Dernck. 
 
 It was a compact, decide. 1 hand, free turn the suspi- 
 cion of an unnecessary curve. 
 
 *' DEAR MR. GRACE, 
 
 " Many thanks for the book. You are very kind indeed. Pray leV 
 ue h< ar something more about your people. I am afraid papa must find 
 tnenr: very discouraging, but I cannot help feeling interested. Grand- 
 maip uia wishes to be remembered to you. 
 
 "With more thanks, 
 
 " Believe me your friend, 
 
 ANICK BARHOLM." 
 
 J Derrick refolded the note and handed it back to his 
 friend. To tell the truth, it did not impress him very 
 favorably. A girl not yet twenty years 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, flush- 
 ing again. " She is the Rector's daughter. I have known 
 her three years. You remember I wrote 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 encouragement at all ; but, however that 
 is, it has grown upon me, Derrick, my feeling for her 
 has grown into my life. She has never cared for me. I 
 am quite sure of that, you see. Indeed, I could hardly 
 expect it. It is not her way to care for men as they are 
 likely to care for her, though it will come some day, I 
 euppose with the coming man," half smiling. " She ia 
 simply what she signs herself here, my friend Anice Bar 
 
S THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&S. 
 
 holm, and I am thankful for that much. She would *iot 
 write even that if she did not mean it." 
 
 " Bless my soul," broke in Derrick, tossing back hia 
 head impatiently ; " and she is only nineteen yet, you 
 Bay?" 
 
 u Only nineteen,' said the curate, with simple trustful- 
 ness in his friend's sympathy, " but different, you knew, 
 from any other woman I have ever seen." 
 
 The tea and toast came in then, and they sat down to- 
 gether to partake of it. Derrick knew Anice quite well 
 before the meal was ended, and yet he had not asked 
 many questions. He knew how Grace had met her at 
 her father's house an odd, self-reliant, very pretty and 
 youthful-looking little creature, with the force and de- 
 cision of half a dozen ordinary women hidden in her 
 small frame ; how she had seemed to like him ; how their 
 intimacy had grown ; how his gentle, deep-rooted passion 
 had grown with it ; Jiow he had learned to understand 
 that he had nothing to hope for. 
 
 " I am a little fearful for the result of her first visit 
 here," said Grace, pushing his cup aside and looking 
 troubled. " I cannot bear to think of her being disap- 
 pointed and disturbed by the half-savage state in which 
 these people live. She knows nothing of the mining dis- 
 tricts. She has never been in Lancashire, and they 
 have always lived in the South. She is in Kent now, 
 with Mrs. Barholm's mother. And though I have tried, 
 in my short tatters to her, to prepare her for the rough 
 Bide of life she will be obliged to see, I am afraid it is im- 
 possible for her to realize it, and it may be a .shock to her 
 when she comes." 
 
 " She is coming to Biggan then ? " said Derrick. 
 
 " In a few weeks. She has been virting Mrs. Gallo- 
 
A DIFFICULT CASK Q 
 
 way since the Retor gave up his living at Ashley -wo) Je, 
 and Mrs. Barholm told me to-day that she spoke in her 
 last letter of coming to them." 
 
 The moon was sliming brightly when Derrick stepped 
 ont into the street later in the evening, and though the 
 aii was somewhat chill it was by no means unpleasant 
 He had rather a long walk before him. He disliked the 
 einoke and dust of the murky little town, and chose to 
 live on its outskirts ; but he was fond of sharp exercise, 
 and regarded the distance between 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 a way of scattering 
 and cooling restless plans and feverish fancies, that is good 
 for a man. Half a mile of the Knoll Road is often enough 
 to blow all the morbidness out of a fellow." 
 
 To-night by the time he reached the corner that turned 
 him upon the Knoll Road, his mind had wandered upon 
 an old track, but it had been drawn there by a new ob- 
 ject, nothing other than Joan Lowrie, indeed. The im- 
 pression made upon him by the story of Joan and her 
 outcast life was one not easy to be effaced. The hard- 
 est miseries in the lot of a class in whom he could not 
 fail to be interested, were grouped about that dramatic 
 figure. He was struck, too, by a painful sense of incon- 
 gruity. 
 
 " If she had been in this other girl's niche," he said, 
 ( :f she had lived the life of this Anice " 
 
 But he did not finish his sentence. Something, not 
 many yards beyond him, caught his eye a figure seated 
 upon the road-side near a collier's cottage evidently a 
 pit girl in some trouble, for her head was bowed upon her 
 
THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&S. 
 
 hands, and there was a dogged sort of misery expressed in 
 
 her very posture. 
 
 - " A woman," he said aloud. " What woman, I wonder. 
 
 Thip is not the time for any woman to be sitting here 
 
 alone." 
 
 He crossed the road at once, and going to the girl, 
 touched her lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 " My lass," he said good-naturedly, " what ails you ? " 
 
 She raised her head slowly as if she were dizzy and be- 
 wildered. Her face was disfigured by a bruise, and on 
 one temple was a cut from which the blood trickled down 
 her cheek; but the moonlight showed him that it was 
 loan. 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 1m." 
 
 He did not ask her how she had been hurt. He knew 
 as well as if she had told him, that it had been done in 
 one of her father's fits of drunken passion. He had seen 
 this sort of thing before during his sojourn in the mining 
 districts. But, shamefully repulsive as it had been to 
 him, he had 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 '11 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 awaj, as if 
 impatient at his persistence. 
 
 " It '11 do well enow as it isj" she said. 
 
 " Tiat is a mistake," he answered. " You are losing 
 
A DIFFICULT CASE. H 
 
 more blo)d tl.an you imagine. Will you let me help 
 you?" 
 
 She stirred uneasily. 
 
 Derrick took no notice of the objection. He drew hia 
 handkerchief from his pocket, and, after some little effort, 
 managed to stanch the bleeding, and having done so. 
 bound the wound up. Perhaps something in his sympa- 
 thetic silence and the quiet consideration of his manner 
 touched Joan. Her face, upturned almost submissive- 
 ly, for the moment seemed tremulous, and she set her 
 lips together. She did not speak until he had finished, 
 and then she rose and stood before him immovable aa 
 ever. 
 
 " Thank yo'," she said in a suppressed voice, " I carma 
 Bay no more." 
 
 " Never mind that," he answered, " I could have done 
 no less. If you could go 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 glance with a pride which defied him to pity or 
 question her. But his sympathy and interest must have 
 stirred her, for the next minute her manner softened. 
 " I've done it of ten," she added, "an' nowts nivver feared 
 me. Yo' need na care, Hester, I'm used to Jt." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Xo, I ha' not," she said, hardening again, and she 
 turned away as if she meant to end the discussion. But 
 ho would not leave her. The spirit of determination was 
 as strong in his character as in her own. He tore a leaf 
 from his pocket-book, and, writing a few lines upon it, 
 
12 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 handed it to her. "If you will take that to Thwaiteff 
 wife," he said, " there will be no necessity for your re- 
 maining out of doors all night." 
 
 She took it from him mechanically ; but when he 
 finished speaking, her calmness left her. Her hand be- 
 gan to tremble, and then her whole frame, and the next 
 instant the note fell to the ground, and she dropped into 
 her old place again, sobbing passionately and hiding her 
 face on her arms. 
 
 " I wunnot tak' it ! " she cried. " I wunnot go no wheer 
 an' tell as I'm turned loike a dog into th' street." 
 
 Her misery and shame shook her like a tempest. But 
 she subdued herself at last. 
 
 u I dunnot see as yo' need care," she protested half re- 
 sentfully. " Other folk dunnot. I'm left to mysen most 
 o' toimes." Her head fell again and she trembled from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " But I do care ! " he returned. " I cannot leave you 
 here and will not. If you will trust me and do as' I tell 
 you, the people you go to need know nothing you do not 
 choose to tell them." 
 
 It was evident that his determination made her falter, 
 and seeing this he followed up his advantage and so far 
 improved it that at last, after a 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 say something, for she stood before 
 him with a restrained air and downcast face. She broke 
 the silence herself, however, suddenly looking up and fix- 
 ing her large eyes full upon him. 
 
 " If I was a lady," she said, " happen 1 should know 
 what to say to yo' ; but bein' what I am, I dunnot. Hap 
 
A DIFFICULT CASK. 13 
 
 pen as yo're a gentleman yo' know what I'd loike to say 
 an canna happen yo' do." 
 
 Even as she spoke, the instinct of defiance in her nature 
 struggled against that of gratitude ; but the finer instinct 
 conquered. 
 
 " We will not speak of thanks," he said. " I may need 
 help some day, and come 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 had th' moind. If yo'll pro- 
 mise that " 
 
 " I will promise it," he answered her. 
 
 " An' I'll promise to gi' it yo'," eagerly. " So that's 
 settled. Now I'll go my ways. Good neet to yo'." 
 
 " Good night," he returned, and uncovering with aa 
 grave a courtesy as he might have shown to the finest lady 
 ni the land, or to his own mother or sister, he stood at the 
 road-side and watched her until ghe was out of sight. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 " LIZ." 
 
 *' TH' owd lid's been at his tricks again," was the lough 
 Totnment made on Joan Lowrie's appearance when she 
 came down to her work the next morning ; but Joan 
 looked neither right nor left, and went to her place with- 
 out a word. Not one among them had ever heard her 
 speak of her miseries and wrongs, or had known her tc 
 do otherwise than ignore the fact that their existence was 
 well known among her fellow- workers. 
 
 When Derrick passed her on his way to his duties, sho 
 looked up from her task with a faint, quick color, and re- 
 plied to his courteous gesture with a curt yet not ungra- 
 cious nod. It was evident that not even her gratitude 
 would lead her to encourage any advances. But, not- 
 withstanding this, he did not feel repelled or disappoint- 
 ed. He had learned enough of Joan, in their brief inter- 
 view, to prepare him to expect no other manner from her. 
 He was none the less interested in the girl because he 
 found himself forced to regard her curiously and criti- 
 cally, and at a distance. He watched her as she went 
 alxrit her work, silent, self-contained and solitary. 
 
 " That ^ss o' Lowrie's ! " said a superannuated old col 
 lier once, in answer 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, Mestcr," with a touch of pride 
 
15 
 
 " Not as th' owd chap ivver did owt fur her i' that 
 road," the speaker went on, nothing joath to gossip with 
 ' one o' th' Hesters.' " He nivver did nowt fur her but 
 spend her wage i' drink. Bat theer wur a neet skoo' 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 a wonder. Just let her set her mind to do owt 
 an' she'll do it." 
 
 " Here," said Derrick to Paul that night, as the engi- 
 neer leaned back in his easy chair, glowering at the grate 
 and knitting his brows, " Here," he said, " is a creature 
 with the majesty of a Juno though really nothing but 
 a girl in years who rules a set of savages by the mere 
 power of a superior will and mind, and yet a woman 
 who works at the mouth of a coal-pit, who cannot write 
 her own name, and who is beaten by her fiend of a father 
 as if she were a dog. Good Heaven ! what is she doing 
 here ? What does it all mean ? " 
 
 The Reverend Paul put up his delicate hand deprecat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " My dear Fergus," he said, " if I dare if my own life 
 and the lives of others would let me I think I should be 
 tempted to give it up, as one gives up other puzzles, 
 when one is beaten by them." 
 
 Derrick looked at him, forgetting himself in a sudden 
 sympathetic comprehension. 
 
 " Yon have been more than ordinarily discouraged to- 
 dav," he said. " What is it, Grace." 
 
 " Do you know Sammy Craddock," was the reply. 
 
 " ' Owd Sammy Craddock ' ? " said Derrick with a 
 laugh. " Wasn't it ' Owd Sammy,' who was talking tc 
 me to-day about Joan Lowrie ? " 
 
 " I dare say it was," sighing. " And if you know Sam- 
 
15 TEAT LASS G 1 LOWRL&8. 
 
 my Craddock, you know one of the principal cat.ses of 
 my discouragement. I went to see him this afternoon, 
 and I have not quite quite got over it, in fact." 
 
 Derrick's interest in his friend's trials was stirred as 
 usual at the first signal of distress. It was the part of his 
 stronger and more evenly balanced nature to be conetantly 
 ready with generous sympathy and comfort. 
 
 " It has struck me," he said, " that Craddock is cue of 
 the institutions of Riggan. I should like to hear some- 
 thing definite concerning him. Why is 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 deal with, because he is the shrewdest, the 
 most irreverent and the most disputatious old fellow in 
 Riggan. And yet, in the face of all this, because he is so 
 often right, that I am forced into a sort of respect for him." 
 
 " 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, 1 ask you, can a man battle against the faintest 
 element of right and truth, even when it will and must 
 arraign itself on the side of wrong. If I could shut my 
 eyes to the right, and see only the wrong, I might leave 
 myself at least a blind content, but I cannot I cannot. 
 
 If I could look upon these things as Barholm does " 
 
 But here he stopped, suddenly checking himself. 
 
 " 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 ouce his fellow- workers, 
 Craddock is an oracle," he went on. " His influence if 
 
" LIZ. 17 
 
 not umike Joan Lowrie's. It is the influence of a strong 
 mind over weaker ones. His sharp sarcastic speeches are 
 proverbs among the Rigganites ; he amuses them and 
 can make them listen to him. When he holds up { Th' 
 o\vd parson ' to their ridicule, he sweeps all before him. 
 He can undo in an hour what I have struggled a year to 
 accomplish. He was a collier himself until he became 
 superannuated, and he knows their natures, you see." 
 
 " "What has he to say about Barholrn ? " asked Derrick 
 without looking at his friend, however. 
 
 " Oh ! " he protested, " that is the worst side of it that 
 is miserable that is wretched ! I may as well speak 
 openly. Barholm is his strong card, and that is what baf- 
 fles me. He scans Barholm with the eye of an eagle. He 
 does not spare a single weakness. He studies him he 
 knows his favorite phrases and gestures by heart, and has 
 used them until there is not a Riggan collier who does not 
 recognize them when they are presented to him, and ap- 
 plaud them as an audience might applaud the staple jokes 
 of a popular actor." 
 
 Explained even thus far, the case looked difficult 
 enough ; but Derrick felt no wonder at his friend's dis- 
 couragement when he had heard his story to the end, and 
 understood it fully. 
 
 The living at Riggan had never been happily man- 
 aged. It had been presented to men who did not un- 
 derstand the people under their charge, and to men whom 
 the people failed to understand ; but possibly it had 
 never before fallen into the hands of a man who was so 
 little qualified to govern Rigganites, as was the present 
 rector, the Reverend Harold Barholm. A man who has 
 mistaken his vocation, and who has become ever so faint- 
 ly conscious of his blunder, may be a stumbling-block in 
 
18 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 another's path ; but restrained as he will be by his eecret 
 pangs of conscience, he can scarcely be an active obstruc- 
 tionist. But a man who, having mistaken the Held of his 
 life's labor, yet remains amiably self-satisfied, and uncon 
 scious of his unfitness, may do more harm in his serena 
 ignorance than he might have done good if he had chosen 
 his proper sphere. Such a man as the last was the Rev- 
 erend Harold. A good-natured, broad-shouldered, tact- 
 less, self -sufficient person, he had taken up his work with 
 a complacent feeling that no field of labor could fail to 
 be benefited by his patronage ; he was content now as 
 always. He had been content with himself and his intel- 
 lectual progress at -Oxford; he had been content with 
 his first parish at Ashley- wold ; he had been content then 
 with the gentle-natured, soft-spoken Kentish men and 
 women ; he had never feared finding himself unequal to 
 the guidance of their souls, and he 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 of spirits, " and new to us new of course ; 
 but we shall get over that we shall get over that easily 
 enough, Grace." 
 
 So with not a shadow of a doubt as to his speedy suc- 
 cess, and with a comfortable confidence in ecclesiastical 
 power, in whomsoever vested, he called upon his parish- 
 ioners one after the other. He appeared at their cottages 
 at all hours, and gave the same greeting to each of them. 
 He was their new rector, and having come to Riggan with 
 the intention of doing them good, and improving their 
 moral condition, he intended to do them good, and im- 
 prove them, in spite of themselves. They must come to 
 church: it was their business to come to church, as it 
 was his business to preach the gospel. All this implied, 
 
" LIZ " 19 
 
 in half an hour's half -friendly, half-ecclesiastical conver- 
 sation, garnished with a few favorite texts and religious 
 
 7 O ^ 
 
 platitudes, and the man felt that he had done his duty, 
 and done it well. 
 
 Only one man nonplused him, and even this man's effect 
 npon him was temporary, only lasting as long as his call, 
 lie had been met with a dogged resentment in the major- 
 ity 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 as mich as another ud spring up as soon 
 as th' owd un wur cut down. Tha parsens is a nettle as 
 dunnot soon dee oot. Well, I'll leave thee tq th' owd lass 
 here. IIoo's a rare un fur gab when hoo' taks th' notion, 
 an' I'm noan so mich i' th' humor t' argufy mysen to 
 day." And he took his pipe from the mantel-piece and 
 strolled out with an imperturbable air. 
 
 But this was not the last of the matter. The Rector 
 went again and again, cheerfully persisting in bringing 
 the old sinner to a proper sense of his iniquities. There 
 would be some triumph in converting such a veteran as 
 Sammy Craddock, and he was confident of winning this 
 laurel for himself. But the result was scarcely what he had 
 expected. 'Owd Sammy' stood his ground like an old 
 soldier. The fear of man was no.t before his eyes, and 
 4 parsens ' were his favorite game. He was as contuma- 
 cious and profane as such men are apt to be, and he 
 delighted in scattering his clerical antagonists as a task 
 worthy of his mettle. He encountered the Reverend 
 Harold with positive glee. He jeered at him in public, 
 and sneered at him in private, and held him op to the 
 mockery of the collier men and lads, with the dramatic 
 mimicry which made him so popular a character As Der- 
 
20 TJJA'.. 1 LASS W LOWRIIVR. 
 
 rick had said, Sammy Craddock was a Riggan iiiBtitution. 
 In his youth, his fellows had feared his strength ; in his 
 old age they feared his wit. " Let Owd Sammy tackle 
 him," they said, when a new-comer was disputatious, and 
 hard to manage; " Owd Sammy's th' one to gi' him ore 
 fur his nob. Owd Sammy '11 fettle him graidely." And 
 the fact was that Craddock's cantankerous sharpness oi 
 brain and tongue were usually efficacious. So he 
 " tackled " Barholm, and so he " tackled " the curate 
 But, for some reason, he was never actually bitter against 
 Grace. He spoke 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 would say sententiously to his admirers. "He's 
 noan siccan a foo' as th' owd un, for he's a graidely f oo', 
 he is, and no mistake. At any rate a little foo' is better 
 nor a big un." 
 
 And there the matter stood. Against these tremendous 
 odds Grace fought against coarse and perverted natures, 
 worse than all, against the power that should have been 
 ranged upon his side. And added to these discourage- 
 ments, were the obstacles of physical delicacy, and an al- 
 most morbid conscientiousness. A man of coarser fiber 
 might have borne the burden 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 few drops of Barholm's 
 rich, comfortable, stupid blood in Grace's veins would not 
 harm him. And yet it would have to be but a few drcp 
 indeed," hastily. " On the whole 1 think it would he 
 better if he had more blood of his own." 
 
21 
 
 The following day Miss Barholm came. Business had 
 taken Derrick to the station in the morning, and being 
 delayed, he was standing upon the platform when one of 
 the London trains came in. There were generally so few 
 passengers on such trains who were likely to stop at Rig- 
 gan, that the few who did so were of some interest to the 
 bystanders. Accordingly he stood gazing, in rather a 
 preoccupied fashion, at the carriages, when the door of 
 a first-class compartment opened, and a girl stepped out 
 upon the platform near him. Before seeing her face one 
 might have imagined her to be a child of scarcely more 
 than fourteen or fifteen. This was Derrick's first impres- 
 sion ; but when she turned toward him he saw at once 
 that it was not a child. And yet it was a small face, witr 
 delicate oval features, smooth, clear skin, and stray locks 
 of hazel brown hair that fell over the low forehead. She 
 had evidently made a journey of some length, for she was 
 encumbered with travelling wraps, and in her hands she 
 held a little flower-pot containing a cluster of early blue 
 violets, such violets as would not bloom so far north as 
 Riggan, for weeks to come. She stood upon the platform 
 for a' moment or so, glancing up and down as if in search 
 of some one, and then, plainly deciding that the object of 
 her quest had not arrived, she looked at Derrick in a busi- 
 ness-like, questioning way. She was going to speak to 
 him. The next minute she stepped forward without a 
 shadow of girlish hesitation. 
 
 "May I trouble you to tell me where I can find a con- 
 veyance of some sort," she said. fi I want to go to the 
 Llectory." 
 
 Derrick uncovered, recognizing his friend's picture at 
 once. 
 
 " I think," he said with far more hesitancy than 
 
22 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRIWS. 
 
 she had herself shown, "that this must be Miss .Bar- 
 holm." 
 
 " 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, and through some mysterious chance or other, 
 her letters to her friends had not preceded her, so there 
 was no carriage in waiting, and but for Derrick she would 
 have been thrown entirely upon her own resources. But 
 after their mutual introduction the two were friends at 
 once, and before he had put her into the cab, Derrick had 
 begun to understand what it was that led the Reverend 
 Paul to think her an exceptional girl. She knew where 
 her trunks were, and was quite definite upon the subject 
 of what must be done with them. Though pretty and 
 frail looking enough, there was no suggestion of helpless- 
 ness about her. When she was safely seated in the cab, 
 she spoke to Derrick through the open window. 
 
 " If you will come to the Rectory to-night, and let papa 
 thank you," she said, " we shall all be very glad. Mr. 
 Grace will be there, you know, and I have a great many 
 questions to ask which I think you must be able to answer." 
 
 Derrick went back to his work, thinking about Miss 
 Barholm, of course. She was different from othe: girlSj 
 he felt, not only in her fragile frame and delicate face, 
 but with another more subtle and less easily defined dif 
 ference. There was a suggestion of the development in 
 a child of the soul of a woman. 
 
23 
 
 Going down to the mine, Derrick found <.n approach- 
 ing tli at there was some commotion among the workers at 
 the pit's month, and before he turned in to his office, he 
 paused upon the threshold for a few minutes to see what 
 it meant. But it was not a disturbance with which it was 
 easy foi an outsider to interfere. A knot of women 
 drawn away from their work by some prevailing excite- 
 ment, were gathered together around a girl a pretty but 
 pale and haggard creature, with a helpless despairing 
 face who stood at bay in the midst of them, clasping a 
 child to her bosom a target for all eyes. It was a 
 wretched sight, and told its own story. 
 
 " Wheer ha 1 yo' been, Liz ? " Derrick heard two or three 
 voices exclaim at once. " What did you coom back for ? 
 This is what thy handsome face has browt thee to, is it ? " 
 
 And then the girl, white, wild-eyed and breathless wit' 
 excitement, turned on them, panting, bursting into pas- 
 sionate 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, but almost before he had time to do GO, Joan herself 
 had borne down upon the group ; she had pushed her way 
 through it, and was standing in the centre, confronting 
 the girl's tormentors in a flame of wrath, and Liz was 
 clinging to her. 
 
 " What ha' they been sayin' to yo', lass ? " she demanded. 
 *' Eh ! but yo're a brave lot, yo' are women yo' ca' 
 yo'reens ! badgerin' a slip o' a wench loike this." 
 
 " 1 did na coom back to ax nowt fro' noan o' them," 
 sobbed the girl. " I'd rayther dee ony day nor do it ! I'd 
 rayther starve i' th' ditch an' it's comin' to that.'.' 
 
24 TEAT LASS O 1 LO WR1&8. 
 
 " 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 yet so womanly a figure, that a 
 thrill shot through the heart of the man watching her. 
 
 " Lasses," she cried, her voice fairly ringing, " do yo' 
 see this ? A bit o' a helpless thing as caima answer back 
 yo ? re jeers ! Aye ! look at it well, aw on yo'. Some on 
 yo's getten th' loike at whoam. An' when yo've looked at 
 th' choild, look at th' mother ! Seventeen year owd, Liz 
 is, an' th' world's gone wrong wi' her. I wunnot say as 
 tli' world's gone ower reet wi' ony on us ; but them on us 
 as has had th' strength to howd up agen it, need na set 
 our foot on them as has gone down. Happen theer's na 
 so much to choose betwixt us after aw. But I've gotten 
 this to 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 had touched the right chord. Perhaps the bit 
 of the dramatic in her championship of the girl, had as 
 much to do with the success of her half-commanding ap- 
 peal as anything else. But at least, the most hardened of 
 them faltered before her daring, scornful words, and the 
 fire in her face. Liz would be safe enough from them 
 henceforth, it was plain. 
 
 That evening while arranging his papers before going 
 home, Derrick was called from his work by a summons at 
 the office door, and going to open it, he found Joan Low- 
 lie standing there, looking half abashed, half determined. 
 
 " I ha' summat to ax yo'," she said briefly, declining 
 his invitation to enter and be seated. 
 
 " If there is anything I can do for " began Der 
 rick. 
 
" LIZ." 25 
 
 " It is na mysen," she interrupted him. " There is a 
 poor lass as I'm fain to help, if I could do it, but I ha' not 
 th' power. I dunnot know of any one as has, except yo'r- 
 sen and th' parson, an' I know more o' yo' than I do o' 
 th' parson, so I thowt I'd ax yo' to speak to him about th j 
 poor wench, an ax him if he could get her a bit o' work 
 as ud help to keep her honest." 
 
 Derrick looked at her handsome face gravely, curi- 
 ously. 
 
 " I saw you defend this girl against some of her old 
 companions, a few hours 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' thowt o' what moight fa' on her if her mother's life 
 is na an honest un I canna bide the thowt on it." 
 
 " I will see my friend to-night," said Derrick, " and 1 
 will speak to him. Where can he find the girl ? " 
 
 " Wi' me," she answered. " I'm taker, both on 'em 
 wbuain wi' me." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE KEVEKEND HAROLD BAJRHOLM. 
 
 che Reverend Paul entered the parlcr at the 
 Rectory, le found that his friend had arrived before him. 
 Mr. BazJ.olm, his wife and Anice, with their guest, formed 
 a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glance that 
 Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the 
 centre figure. He was talking and the others were listen- 
 ing Mr. Barholm in his usual restless fashion, Mrs. Bar- 
 holm with evident interest, Anice leaning forward on her 
 ottoman, listening eagerly. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Mr. Barholm, when the servant an- 
 
 nounced the visitor, " this is fortunate. Here is Grace. 
 
 Glad to see you, Grace. Take a seat. We are talking 
 
 about an uncommonly interesting case. I dare say you 
 
 know the young woman." 
 
 Anice looked up. 
 
 " We are talking about Joan Lowrie," she said. " Mr 
 Derrick is telling us about her." 
 
 " Most interesting affair from beginning to end," 
 continued the Rector, briskly. " Something must be done 
 for the young woman We must go and see her, I will 
 go and see her myself.' 7 
 
 He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, 
 eolf-secure style. Ecclesiastical patronage would certainly 
 net this young woman right at once. There was no doubt 
 of that. And who was so wel. qualified to bestow it as 
 himself 5 
 
THE REVEREND HAROLD BARUOLM. 37 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I will go myself," he said. " That kind of 
 people is easily managed, when once one understands 
 them. There really is some good in them, after all. You 
 see, Giace, it is as I have told you only understand them, 
 and make them understand you, and the rest is easy." 
 
 Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear 
 yes of the girl rested on the man with a curious expres- 
 sion . 
 
 " Do you think," she said quickly, " that they like us to 
 go and see them in that sort of way, papa-? Do you 
 think it is wise to remind them that we know more than 
 they do, and that if they want to learn they must learn 
 from us, just because we have been more fortunate ? It 
 really seems to me that the rebellious ones would ask them- 
 selves what right we had to be more fortunate." 
 
 " My dear," returned the Rector, somewhat testily he 
 was not partial to the interposition of obstacles even in sug- 
 gestion " My dear, if you had been brought into contact 
 with these people as closely as I have, or even as Grace 
 has, you would learn that they are not prone to regard 
 things from a metaphysical stand-point. Metaphysics are 
 not in their line. They are more apt to look upon life as 
 a matter of bread and bacon than as a problem." 
 
 A shadow fell upon Anice's face, and before the visit 
 ended, Derrick had observed its presence more than once. 
 It was always her father who summoned it, he noticed. 
 And yet it was evident enough that she was fond of the 
 man, and in no ordinary degree, and that the affection 
 was mutual. As he was contented with himself, so Bar- 
 holm was contented with his domestic relations. He was 
 fond of his wife, and fond of his daughter, as much, 
 perhaps, through his appreciation of his cwn good taste in 
 wedding such a wife, and becoming the father of such a 
 
28 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 daughter as through his appreciation of their peculiai 
 charms. He was proud of them and indulgent to them. 
 They reflected a credit on him of which he felt himseli 
 wholly deserving. 
 
 " They are very fond of him," remarked Grace after- 
 ward 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," 
 with a wistful sound in his voice. 
 
 There was always this wistful appeal in the young man's 
 tone when he spoke of his clerical master a certain 
 anxiety to make the best of him, and refrain from any 
 suspicion of condemnation. Derrick was always reminded 
 by it of the shadow on Anice's face. 
 
 " I want to tell you something." Miss Barholm said this 
 evening to Grace at parting. " I do not think I arn afraid 
 of Riggan at all. I think I shall like it all the better 
 because it is so new. Everything is so earnest and ener- 
 getic, that it is a little bracing like the atmosphere. Per- 
 haps when the time comes I could do something to 
 help you with that girl. I shall try at any rate." She held 
 out her hand to him with a smile, and the Reverend Paul 
 went home feeling not a little comforted and en- 
 couraged. 
 
 The Rector stood with his back to the fire, his portly 
 person expressing intense satisfaction. 
 
 " You will remin 1 me about that young woman in the 
 morning, Anice," he said. " I should like to attend to the 
 matter myself. Singular that Grace should not have 
 mentioned her before. It really seems to me, you know, 
 that now and then Grace is a little deficient in interest, 01 
 energy." 
 
THE REVEREND HAROLD BARHOLM. 29 
 
 " Sorely not interest, ray dear," suggested Mrs. Barholrn, 
 gently. 
 
 " Well, well." conceded the Hector, " perhaps not inter- 
 est, but energy or or appreciation. I should have seen 
 Biich a fine creature's superiority, and mentioned it at 
 once. She must be a fine creature. A young woman oi 
 that kind should be encouraged. I will gc and see her in 
 the morning if it were not so late I. would go now. 
 Really, she ought to be told that she has exhibited a very 
 excellent spirit, and that people approve of it. I wonder 
 what sort of a household servant she would make if she 
 were properly trained ? " 
 
 " That would not do at all," put in Ariice decisively. 
 " From the pit's mouth to the kitchen would not be a 
 natural transition." 
 
 " Well, well," as usual, " perhaps you are right. There 
 is plenty of time to think 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 plans for Joan Lowrie when he arose as 
 he had been when he went to bed. He came down to the 
 charming breakfast-room in the most sanguine of moods. 
 But then his moods usually were sanguine. It was 
 scarcely to be wondered at. Fortune had treated him 
 with great suavity from his earliest years. Well-born, 
 comfortably trained, healthy and easy-natured, the world 
 had always turned its pleasant side to him. As a young 
 man, he had been a strong, handsome fellow, whose con- 
 venient patrimony had placed him beyond the possibility 
 of entire dependence upon his prof ession. When a curate 
 he had been well enough paid and without private respon- 
 sibilities ; when he married he was lucky enough to win 
 a woman who added to his comfort; in fact, life had gone 
 
30 THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&8. 
 
 smoothly with him for BO long that he had no reason tc 
 Buspect Fate of any intention to treat him ill-naturedly. 
 It was far more likely that she would reserve her scurvy 
 tricks for some one else. 
 
 Even Riggan had not perplexed him at all. Its difficul- 
 ties were not snch as would be likely to disturb him greatly. 
 One foiind ignorance, and vice, and discomfort among the 
 ower classes always ; there was the same thing to contend 
 against in the agricultural as in the mining districts. And 
 the Rectory was substantial and comfortable, even pic- 
 turesque. The house was roomy, the garden large and 
 capable of improvement ; there were trees in abundance, 
 ivy on the walls, and Anice would do the rest. The 
 breakfast-room looked specially encouraging this morn- 
 ing. Anice, in a pretty pale blue gown, and with a few 
 crocuses at her throat, awaited .his coming behind the 
 handsomest of silver and porcelain, reading his favorite 
 newspaper the while. Her little pot of emigrant violets 
 exhaled a faint, spring-like odor from their sunny place 
 *t the window ; there was a vase of crocuses, snow-drops 
 and ivy leaves in the center of the table ; there was sun- 
 shine outside and comfort in. The Rector had a good 
 appetite and an unimpaired digestion. Anice rose when 
 he entered, and. touched the bell. 
 
 "Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a 
 while," she said. " She told me \ve were not to wait for 
 her." And then she brought him his newspaper and 
 kissed him dutifully. 
 
 " Yery glad to see you home again, I am sure, my 
 dear," remarked the Rector. " I have really missed you 
 very much. What excellent coffee this is ! another cup, 
 if you please." And, after a pause, 
 
 "I think really, you knew," he rroceeded, " that yon 
 
THE REVEREND HAROLD BARHOLM. 3] 
 
 will not find the place unpleasant, after all. For my part 
 I think it is well enough for such a place ; one cannot 
 expect Belgravian polish in Lancashire miners, and cer- 
 tainly one does not meet with it ; but it is well to make 
 the best of things. I get along iryself reasonably well 
 with the people. I do not encountei the difficulties Grace 
 complains of." 
 
 " Does he complain ? " asked Anice ; " I did not think 
 he exactly complained." 
 
 " Grace is too easily discouraged," answered the Hector 
 in off-handed explanation. " And he is apt to make blun- 
 ders. He speaks of, and to, these people as if they were 
 of the same fiber as himself. He does not take hold of 
 things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but 
 he is 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 of that 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, frowning slightly, " and he does not seem to 
 rely very much upon me not so much as I would wish. 
 J 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. I am sure it is always best, that consci- 
 entious, thinking people and Mr. Grace is a thinking 
 man should have paths of their own." 
 
 Mr. Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. Ilia 
 own obstinacy confronted him sometimes through Anice 
 ID a finer, more baffling: form. 
 
32 THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&S. 
 
 " Grace is a young man, my dear," he said, " and and 
 not a very strong-minded one." 
 
 " I cannot believe that is true, 7 * said Anice. " I do not 
 think we can blame his mind. It is his body that is not 
 strong. Mr. Grace himself has more power than you and 
 mamma and myself all put together." 
 
 One of Anice's peculiarities was a certain pretty senteu- 
 tiousness, which, but for its innate refinement, and its 
 sincerity, might have impressed people as being a fault. 
 When she pushed her opposition in that steady, innocent 
 way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind au inner 
 consciousness which " knew better," and was fully satisfied 
 on the point of its own knowledge. 
 
 When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with 
 the air of a man who had business on hand. Anice rose 
 too, and followed him to the hearth. 
 
 " You are going out, I suppose," she said. 
 
 " I am going to see Joan Lowrie," he said complacently. 
 1 And 1 have several calls to make besides. Shall I tell 
 the young woman that you will call on her ? " 
 
 Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on tho 
 shining rim of the steel fender. 
 
 " Joan Lowrie ? " she said reflectively. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please 
 the girl to foel that we are interested in her." 
 
 " I should scarcely think from what Mr. Grace and 
 his friend say that she is the kind of a girl to be reached 
 \n that way," said Anice 
 
 The Rector shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " My dear," he answered, "if we are always to depend 
 *pon what Grace says, we shall often find ourselves in- a 
 dilemma. If you are going to wait until these collier 
 young women call on you after the manner cf polite 
 
THE REVEREND HAROLD VAllHOLM. 33 
 
 society, I am afraid you will have time to lose interest in 
 them and their affairs." 
 
 lie had no scruples of his own on the subject of his 
 errand. Pie felt very comfortable as usual, as he wended 
 IMS way through the village toward Lowrie's cottage, on 
 the Knoll Road. lie did not ask himself what he should 
 say to the collier young woman, and her unhappy charge. 
 Orthodox phrases with various distinct flavors the flavor 
 of encouragement, the flavor of reproof, the flavor of con- 
 solation, were always ready with the man ; he never 
 found it necessary to prepare them before hand. The 
 flavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning ; 
 the flavor of rebuke her companion's. He passed down 
 the street with ecclesiastical dignity, bestowing a curt, but 
 not unamiable word of recognition here and there. Un- 
 kempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or mar 
 bles on the flag pavement, looked up at him with a 'species 
 of awe, not unmingled with secret resentment ; women 
 lounging on door-steps, holding babies on their hips, 
 stared in critical sullenness as he went by. 
 
 "Theer's th' owd parson," commented one sharp- 
 tongued matron. " Hoo's goin' to teach some one summat 
 I warrant. What th' owd lad dunnot know is na worth 
 kiiovvin'. 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 cottage was a trifle less inviting than the major- 
 ity. It stood upon the roadside, an ug_y little bare place, 
 with a look of stubborn desolation, ifs only redeeming 
 feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same cleanliness 
 reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered ; and 
 yet on the whole there was a stair ,p upon it which made 
 
34 . THAT LASS LOWRI&S. 
 
 it a place scarcely to be 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, and met 
 him with a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale 
 face. 
 
 " Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan," she said, with 
 oat waiting for him to speak. " Both on 'em's at th' pit. 
 Theers no one here but me," and she held the baby over 
 her shoulder, as if she would like to have hidden it. 
 
 Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to 
 be welcome, if he were not. 
 
 " At the pit, are they ? " he answered. " Dear me ! I 
 might have remembered that they would be at this time. 
 Well, well ; I will take a seat, my girl, and talk to you a 
 little. I suppose you know me, the minister at the 
 church Mr. Barholm." 
 
 Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe- 
 begone, stood up before him, staring at him irresolutely 
 as he seated himself. 
 
 " I I duunot know nobody much now," she stammered. 
 " I I've been away fro' Riggan sin' afore yo' comn if 
 yo're th' new parson," and then she colored nervously and 
 became fearfully conscious of her miserable little burden. 
 " I've heerd Joan speak o' th' young parson," she faltered. 
 
 Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, 
 childish creature she 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 
 of error, not strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not 
 Btrong enough to be anything in particular, but that which 
 her surroundings made her. If she had been well-bom 
 and well brought up, she would have been a pretty r 
 
TEE REVEREND HAROLD BARUOLM. 3ft 
 
 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 must be awakened. 
 
 " You are the girl Elizabeth ? " he said. 
 
 " I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes," she answered, pulling at the 
 hem of her child's small gown, " but folks nivver calls 
 me nowt but Liz." 
 
 Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. " Sit 
 down," he said, "I want to talk to you." 
 
 Liz obeyed him ; but her pretty, weak face told its own 
 story of distaste and hysterical shrinking. She let the 
 baby lie upon her lap ; her fingers were busy plaiting up 
 folds of the little gown. 
 
 " I dunnot want to be talked to," she whimpered. " 3 
 dunnot kjiow as talk can do folk as is i' trouble any good 
 an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'out talk." 
 
 "We must remember whence the trouble comes," 
 answered the minister, " and if the root lies in ourselves, 
 and springs from our own sin, we must bear our cross 
 meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the foun- 
 tain head. We must ask for grace, and and sanctifica- 
 tion of spirit." 
 
 " I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head," sobbed 
 Liz aggrieved. " I amna religious an' I canna see as such 
 loike helps foak. No Methody nivver did nowt for me 
 when I war i' trouble an' want. Joan Lowrie is na a 
 Methody." 
 
 "If you mean that the young woman is in an nn 
 awakened condition, I am sorry to hear it," with increased 
 gravity of demeanor. "Without the redeeming blood 
 how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the 
 Cross you would have been spared all this sin and shame, 
 You must know, my girl, that this," with a motion 
 
36 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIET8. 
 
 toward the frail creat'ire on her knee, " is a very terrible 
 thing." 
 
 Liz bimt into piteous sobs crying like an abused 
 child : 
 
 " I know it's hard enow," she cried ; " I canna get work 
 neyther at th' pit nor at th' factories, as long as I mun 
 drag it about, an' 1 ha' not got a place to lay my head, 
 on'y this. If it wur na for Joan, I might starve and the 
 choild too. But I'ni noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I I 
 wur very fond o' him I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' 
 me, an' he wur a gentleman too. He were no laboring- 
 man, an he wur kind to me, until he got tired. Them 
 sort all us gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. I wish 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 not her sin that crushed 
 her, it was the consequence of it ; hers was not a sorrow, it 
 was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosper- 
 ous outwardly, she would have felt no inward pang. 
 
 It became more evident to him than ever that something 
 must be done, and he applied himself to his task of reform 
 to the best of his ability. But he exhausted his reper- 
 tory of sonorous phrases in vain. His grave exhortations 
 only called forth fresh tears, and a new element of resent- 
 ment ; and, to crown all, his visit terminated with a dis- 
 couragement of which his philosophy had never dreamed. 
 
 In the midst of his most eloquent reproof, a shadow 
 darkened the threshold, and as Liz looked up with the ex- 
 planation " Joan ! " a young woman, in pit girl guise, 
 came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her throat bare, 
 her fustian jacket hanging over hei arm. She glanced 
 
THE REVEREND HAROLD BARHOLM. 37 
 
 from one to the other questioningly, knitting her browa 
 slightly at the sight of Liz's tears. In answer tc her glaneo 
 Liz spoke querulously. 
 
 " It's th' parson, Joan," she said. " He comn to talk 
 like th rest on 'em an' he maks me out too ill to burn." 
 
 Just it that moment the child set up a fretful cry and 
 Joan ci'ossed the room and took it up in her arms. 
 
 " Yo've feart th' choild betwixt yo'," she said, " if yo've 
 managed to do nowt else." 
 
 " I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish," explained 
 Barholm somewhat curtly, " I felt it my duty as Rector 
 of the parish, to endeavor to bring your 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 dying out. 
 
 " I I " he stammered. 
 
 Joan interrupted him, 
 
 " Dost tha see as tha has done her any good ? " she de- 
 manded. " I dunnot mysen." 
 
 " I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve 
 her mental condition," 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 if yo'd been wiser than yo' 
 are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theer is na a par- 
 eon 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her 
 that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear ; but happen 
 theer is na a parson 'twixt here aii' Lunnon as she could 
 na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has 
 said thy say, happen it '11 doyc' fur this toime, an' yo' can 
 let her be for a while." 
 
38 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRIBTS. 
 
 Mr. Barholm was unusnallj silent during dinner that 
 evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction 
 rose to the surface, as it invariably 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, " and I am very much disappointed in her. 
 I scarcely think, after all, that I would 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." 
 
 MK. BAKHOLM had fallen into the habit of turning to 
 A nice for it, when he required information concerning 
 people and things. In her desultory pilgrimages, Anice 
 saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was deaf 
 to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who 
 passed to and from their work at the mine, drew her to the 
 window whenever they made their appearance. She longed 
 to know something definite of them to get a little nearer 
 to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and 
 women, passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each 
 other who she was, decided upon her relationship to the 
 family. 
 
 " Hoo's th' owd parson's lass," somebody said. " IIoo'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, still could not look with ill-nature upon 
 this pretty girl. The slatternly women nudged each 
 other as she passed, and the playing children stared after 
 their usual fashion ; but even the hardest-natured matron 
 cyiild find 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 on her, at ony rate. 
 Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lasE wi'out much blood i' 
 her." 
 
4() THAT LASS & LOWRIETS. 
 
 Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, 
 but she was used to being commented upon. She had 
 learned that people whose lives have a great deal of hard, 
 common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendency to 
 depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear 
 one's own 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 one wide street with its jumble of old, 
 tumble-down shops, and glaring new ones, branched out 
 narrow, up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by 
 colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, 
 where bread and bacon were ranged alongside potatoes 
 and flabby cabbages ; ornithological specimens made of 
 pale sweet cake, and adorned with startling 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 first adventure. 
 
 Turning the corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog 
 among a group of children, followed almost immediately 
 by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish voices, a sound of 
 blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice paused for 
 a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little 
 crowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was 
 in the heart of it. The two boys who were the principal 
 figures, were fighting frantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, 
 and laying on vigorous blows, with not unscientific fiete. 
 Now and then a tierce, red, boyish face was to be seen, 
 and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed 
 fiercer and hotter, while the dog a small, shrewd, sharp 
 nosed terrier barked at the combatants' heels, snapping 
 
" LIVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.* 41 
 
 at one- pair, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the 
 excitement. 
 * " Boys ! " cried Anice. " What's the matter ? " 
 
 " They're feighten," remarked a philosophical young 
 by-staiider, with placid interest, " an' Jud Bates '11 win '" 
 
 It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should 
 think of interfering, and there was something so decided 
 in the girlish voice addressing them, that almost at the 
 moment the combatants fell back, panting heavily 
 breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently 
 resenting the unexpected intrusion. 
 
 " What is it all about? " demanded the girl. " Tell me." 
 
 The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier 
 sat down breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail 
 beating the ground. One of the boys was his master, it 
 was plain at a glance, and, as a natural consequence, the 
 dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent of 
 his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak. 
 
 " Why could na he let me a-be then ? " he asked irate- 
 ly. " 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 Ilia 
 fi&t again. " I didna." 
 
 "Nay, tha didna, but tha did sun. mat else. Tha punse J 
 at Nib wi' thy clog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then 
 I punsed thee, an' I'd do it agen fur " 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Anice, holding up her little 
 gloved hand. " Who is Nib ? " 
 
42 TEAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&S. 
 
 " Nib's my dog," surlily. " An' them as punses him, 
 nas gettcn to punse me." 
 
 Anice bent down and patted the small f.nimal. 
 
 " He seems a very nice dog," she said. " What did you 
 kick him for ? " 
 
 Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person whu 
 could appreciate the virtues of " th' best tarrier i' JRig- 
 gan," could not be regarded wholly with 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 the bystanders. 
 
 "Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. 
 He wur mad 'cos Jud wur winneii, and then he kicked 
 Nib." 
 
 Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch 
 of pride in his manifold injuries, and the readiness with 
 which they were attested. 
 
 "Aye," he said, " an' I did na set on him at first ney 
 ther. I nivver set on 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 grievously in the minority. Nobody seemed to 
 side with him, and everybody seemed ready when onco 
 the tongues were loosed to say a word for Jud and " th' 
 best tarrier i' Riggan." For a few minutes Anice could 
 scarcely make herself heard. 
 
 " You are a good boy to take care of your dog,"she said 
 to Jud " and though fighting is not a good thing, per 
 haps if I had been a boy," gravely deciding against ruorai 
 suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy " perhaps if I 
 had been a boy, I would have fought myself. You are a 
 
"LOVE ME, LOVE MT DOO." 43 
 
 coward," she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, 
 who slinked sulkily out of sight. 
 
 " Owd Sammy Craddock," lounging at his window, clay 
 pipe in hand, watched Anice as she walked away, and 
 gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd chuckle. 
 
 " 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'll warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoc is, 
 fur a wench." 
 
 " Owd Sammy's " amused chuckles, and exclamations of 
 " Eh ! hoo's a rare un that hoo is fur a wench," at last 
 drew his wife's attention. The good woman pounced up- 
 on 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 hie 
 Knees with both hands. 
 
 " Why," said he, " I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha 
 tried, but I'll gi'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 not much higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit 
 o' a face loike skim-milk, but steady and full o' pluck as 
 an owd un." 
 
 " Nay now, tha dost na say so ? What wor she doin' an 
 bow did she come theer ? Tha mun ha' been dreamin' ! " 
 
 " Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee. 
 an' heerd ivvery word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen 
 her ! Hoo med as if hoo'd lived wi' lads aw her days. 
 
$4 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIETS. 
 
 Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wur f eight! n 
 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 1 
 care o' his dog, an' hoo does na know but what hoo'd a 
 fowt hersen i' his place, an hoo ca's Jack Thorme a cow- 
 ard, an' turns her back on him, au' ends up wi' tellin' Jud 
 to bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her." 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, " did yo' ivver hear 
 th' loike!" 
 
 " I wish th' owd parson had seed her," chuckled hia 
 spouse irreverently. " That soart is na i' his loine. He'd 
 a waved his stick as if he'd been 'king 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 he 
 gets a bit too, heavy, an' then he'll cooin down wi' a crash, 
 ladder an' aw' but th' lass is a different mak'." 
 
 Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers 
 usually passed through his hands, and were condemned, 
 or approved, by him. His pipe, and his criticisms upon 
 society in general, provided him with occupation. 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 confidential audience that the " owd 
 parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she was " (the mas- 
 culine opinion of Riggan on the subject of the weaker sex 
 \vas a rather disparaging one) the chances of the Rec- 
 tor's daughter began, so to speak, to " look up." If Sam- 
 my Craddock found virtue m the new-comer, it waa 
 possible such virtue might exist, at least in a negative 
 form, and open enmity was rendered unnecessary, and 
 even impolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened 
 
' LOVE ME, ^OVE MY 00." 45 
 
 Wlien A nice passed through the streets, the slatternly, 
 baby -luden women looked at her curiously, and in a man- 
 ner rot absolutely unfriendly. She might not be so bad 
 after all, if she did have " Lunnon ways," and was si liled 
 upoi. by Fortune. At any rate, she differed fron the 
 parson himself, which was in heriavor. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 OUTSIDE THE HEDGE. 
 
 DEEPLY as Ai.ije was interested in Joan, she left her tc 
 herself. She did not go to see her, and still more wisely, 
 she managed to hash in her father any awakening tendency 
 toward parochial visits. Bat from Grace and Fergus 
 Derrick she heard much of her, and through Grace she 
 contrived to convey work and help to Liz, and encourage- 
 ment to her protectress. From what source the assist- 
 ance 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 ac- 
 quaintance, Fergus Derrick's position in the Barholm 
 household had become established. He was the man to 
 make friends and keep them. Mrs. Barholm grew fond 
 of him ; the Rector regarded him as an acquisition to 
 their circle, and Anice was his firm friend. So, being 
 free to come and go, he came and went, and found his 
 unceremonious visits pleasant enough. On his arrival at 
 Itiggan, he had not anticipated meeting with any such 
 opportunities of 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 was A 
 heavy one, and was rendered additionally heavy and 
 dangerous by unforeseen circumstances. A load o/ 
 
 / 
 
OUTSIDE THE HEDGE. 47 
 
 responsibility rested upon his shoulders, to which at times 
 he felt himself barely equal, and which men of less tough 
 fiber would have been glad to shift upon others. Natu- 
 rally, his daily cares made his hours of relaxation all the> 
 more pleasant. Mrs. Barholm's influence upon him was 
 a gentle and soothing one, and in Anice he found a sub- 
 tle inspiration. She seemed to understand his trials by 
 instinct, and even the minutiae of his work made them- 
 selves curiously clear to her. As to the people who were 
 under his control, she was never tired of hearing of them, 
 and of studying their quaint, rough ways. To please her 
 he stored up many a characteristic incident, and it was 
 through him that she heard most frequently of Joan. 
 She did not even see Joan for fully two months after her 
 arrival in Riggan, and then it was Joan who came to her. 
 As the weather became more spring-like she was 
 of teuer out in the garden. She found a great deal tu dc 
 among the flower-beds and shrubbery, and as this haa 
 always been considered her department, she took the man 
 agement of affairs wholly into her own hands. The old place, 
 which had been rather neglected in the time of the pre- 
 vious inhabitant, began to bloom out into fragrant luxuri- 
 ance, and passing Rigganites regarded it with admiring 
 eyes. The colliers who had noticed her at the window in 
 the colder weather, seeing her so frequently irom a nearer 
 point of view, felt themselves on more familiar terms. 
 Some of them even took a sort of liking to her, and gave 
 her an uncouth greeting as they went by ; and, more 
 than once, one or another of them had paused to ask foi 
 a flower or two, and had received them with a curious 
 bashful awe, when they had been passed over the holly 
 nedge. 
 
 Having gone out one evening after dinner to gather 
 
48 THAT LASS O 1 LOWMTE'8. 
 
 flowers for the house, Anice, standing before a high lilac 
 bush, and pulling its pale pnrple tassels, became suddenly 
 conscious that some one was watching her some one 
 standing upon the roadside behind the holly hedge. She 
 did not know that as she stopped here and there to fill hei 
 basket, she had been singing to herself in a low tone, 
 Eler voice had attracted the passer-by. 
 
 This passer-by a tall pit girl with a handsome, resolute 
 face stood behind the dark green hedge, and watched 
 her. Perhaps to this girl, weary with her day's labor, 
 grimed with coal-dust, it was not unlike standing outside 
 paradise. Early in the year as it was, there were flowers 
 enough in the beds, and among the shrubs, to make the 
 spring air fresh with a faint, sweet odor. But here too 
 was Anice in her soft white merino dress, with her basket 
 of flowers, with the blue bells at her belt, and her half 
 audible song. She struck Joan Lowrie with a new sense 
 f beauty and purity. As she watched her she grew dis- 
 contented restless sore at heart. She could not have 
 told why, but she felt a certain anger against herself. 
 She had had a hard day. Things had gone wrong at the 
 pit's mouth; things had gone wrong at home. It was 
 hard for her strong nature to bear with Liz's weakness. 
 Her path was never smooth, but to-day it had been at it8 
 roughest. The little song fell upon her ear with strong 
 pathos. 
 
 " She's inside o' th' hedge," she said to herself in a dull 
 voice. " I'm outside, theer's th' difference. It a'most 
 looks loike the hedge went aw' around an' she'd been bom 
 among th' flowers, and theer's no way out for 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, An ice's first 
 
THEN IT WAS THAT AN1CE TURNED ABOUND AND SAW HEK. 
 
OUTSIDE THE HEDGE. 4.9 
 
 thought was that this was Joan. Derrick's description 
 made her sure. There were not two such women in Rig- 
 gan. She made her decision in a moment. She stepped 
 across the grass to 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 the basket and offering them to her across 
 the holly. " When the men come home from the mines 
 they often ask me for two or three, and I think they like 
 them even better than I do though that is saving a great 
 deal." 
 
 Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding 
 them awkwardly, but with tenderness. 
 
 " Oil, thank yo'," she said. "It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em 
 away." 
 
 " It's a pleasure to me," said Anice, picking out a deli- 
 cate pink hyacinth. " Here's a hyacinth." Then as Joan 
 took it their eyes met. " Are you 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 as indescribable as all else in her manner, had 
 done for Anice just what she had simply and seriously 
 desired to do. Proud and stubborn as her nature was, 
 Joan was subdued. The girl's air and speech were like 
 her song. She stood inside the hedge still, in her white 
 dress, among the flowers, looking just as much as if she 
 had been born there as ever, but some fine part of her bad 
 crossed the boundary 
 
 a 
 
50 TEAT LASS Cf LOWRI&8. 
 
 " Ah ! ther. I am glad of that," she said. 
 
 " To' are very good to say as much," she answered , 
 " but I dunnot know as I 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 Anico 
 thought color showed 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 to Liz 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 hope I sent the right things, did I '( " 
 
 " Tes, miss ; thank yo'." And then in a lower voice, 
 " They wur a power o' help to Liz an' me. Liz wur hard 
 beset then, an' she's only a young thing as canna bear sore 
 trouble. Seemed loike that th' thowt as some un had 
 helped her wur a comfort to her." 
 
 Anice took courage. 
 
 " Perhaps if I might come and see her," she said. 
 " May I come ? I should like to see the baby. I am very 
 fond of little children." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and then Joan spoke awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 " Do yo' know happen yo' dunnot what Liz's trouble 
 is \ Bein' as yo're so young yorsen, happen they did na 
 tell yo' all. Most o' toimra folk is na apt to be fond o' such 
 loike as this little un o' hers." 
 
OUTSIDE THE HEDGE. 51 
 
 ** I heard all the story." 
 
 "Then come if yo' loike, an' if they'll let yo', some 
 nd think there wur harm i' th' choild's touch. I'm glad 
 yo' dunna." 
 
 She did not linger much longer. Anice watched her 
 till she was out of sight. An imposing figure she was 
 moving down the road in her rough masculine garb th< 
 massive perfection of her form clearly outlined against 
 the light. It seemed impossible that such a flower as this 
 could blossom, and decay, and die out in such a life, with- 
 out any higher fruition. 
 
 " I have seen Joan Lowrie," said Anice to Derrick, 
 when next they met. 
 
 " Did she come to you, or did you go to her ? " Fergu? 
 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 never found it possible to advance 
 a step with her. She held herself aloof from him, just as 
 she held herself aloof from the rest. A common greeting, 
 and oftener than not, a silent one, was all that passed 
 between them. Try as he would, he could get no farther ; 
 and he certainly did make some effort. Now and then 
 he found the chance to do her a good turn, and such 
 opportunities he never let slip, though his way of doing 
 Buch thirgs was always so quiet as to Ue unlikely to 
 attract any observation. Usually he made his way with 
 people easily, but this girl held him at a distance, almost 
 ungraciously. And he did not like to be beaten. Who 
 does ? So he persevered with a shade of stubbornness, 
 
52 THAT LASS O 1 LOWPJZT8. 
 
 hidden under a net- work of other motives. Oi ce, when 
 he had exerted himself to lighten her labor sc me what, she 
 set aside his assistance openly. 
 
 1'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 had been occasions when, notwithstanding her 
 apparent ungraciousness, she had 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, though even if he had been 
 a Lancashire man, he would not have been likely to find 
 over-mud i favor. It was enough that he was " one o' th' 
 mesters." To have been weak of will, or vacillating of 
 purpose, would have been death to every vestige of the 
 authority vested in him ; but he was as strong mentally 
 as physically strong-willed to the verge of stubbornness. 
 But if they could not frighten or subdue him, they could 
 still oppose and irritate him, and the contention was ob- 
 stinate. This feeling even influenced the girls and women 
 at the " mouth." They, too, organized in petty rebellion, 
 annoying if not powerful . 
 
 i I think yo' will find as yo' may as well leave th' 
 engineer be," Joan would 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' canna 
 bite.' 
 
 " Aye," jeered one of the boldest, once, " leave th' 
 engineer be. Joan sets a power o' store by th' engineer." 
 
 There was a shout of laughter, but it died out when 
 Joan confronted the speaker with dangerous steadineM 
 of gaze. 
 
Oil 1' SIDE THE HEDGE. 53 
 
 " Save thy breath to cool thy porridge," she said. " II 
 be better for thee." 
 
 But it was neither the first nor the last time that hei 
 companions flung out a jeer at her " sweetheart! n'." The 
 shrewdest among them had observed Derrick's interest in 
 her. They concluded, of course, that Joan's handsome 
 face had won her a sweetheart. They could not accuse 
 her of encouraging him ; but they could profess to believe 
 that she was softening, and they could use the insinuation 
 as a sharp weapon against her, when such a course was not 
 too hazardous. 
 
 Of this, Derrick knew nothing. He could only see 
 that Joan set her face persistently against his attempts to 
 make friends with her, and the recognition of this fact 
 almost exasperated him at times. It was quite natural 
 that, seeing so much of this handsome creature, and hear- 
 ing so much of her, his admiration should not die out, and 
 that opposition should rather invite him to stronger efforts 
 to reach her. 
 
 So it was that hearing Miss Barholm's story he fell intc 
 unconscious reverie. Of course this did not last long. 
 He was roused from it by the fact that Anice was looking 
 at him. When he looked up, it seemed as if she 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 to deal with every day." 
 
 " And your plans about the fans ? " 
 
 The substitution of the mechanical fan for the old 
 furnace at the base cf the shaft, was one of the projects 
 to which Derrick clung most tenaciously. During a 
 two years' sojourn among the Belgian mines, he had 
 studied the system earnestly. He had worked hard to 
 
64 
 
 introduce it at Riggan, and meant to work still harder 
 But the miners were bitterly opposed to anything " new 
 fangled," and the owners were careless. So that the 
 mines were worked, and their profits made, it did nol 
 matter for the rest. They were used to casualties, so well 
 used to them in fact, that unless a fearful loss of life 
 occurred, they were not alarmed or even roused. As to 
 the injuries done to a man's health, and so on they 
 had not time to inquire into such things. There waa 
 danger in all trades, for the matter of that. Fergus 
 Derrick was a young man, and young men were fond of 
 novelties. 
 
 Opposition was bad enough, but indifference wa& far 
 more, baffling. The colliers opposed Derrick to the utmost, 
 the company was rather inclined to ignore him some mem- 
 bers good-naturedly, others with an air of superiority, not 
 unmixed with contempt. The colliers talked with rough 
 ill-nature; the Company did not want to talk at all. 
 
 " Oh," answered Derrick, " 1 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 have to deal with 
 are as bat-blind as they are cantankerous. One would 
 think that experience might have taught them wisdom 
 Would you believe that some of those working in the mosf 
 dangerous parts of the mine have false keys to their Davys, 
 and use the flame to light their pipes ? I have heard of the 
 thing being done before, but I only discovered the other Jay 
 that we had such madmen in the pits here. If I could 
 only be sure of them I would settle the matter at once, 
 but they are crafty enough to keep their secret, and it 
 only drift* to the master as a runic r." 
 
 "Have you no suspicion as to who they are?" asked 
 Anice. 
 
OUTSIDE THE HEDGE. 55 
 
 " 1 suspect one man," he answered, " but only suspect 
 him because he is a bad 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 worst influence, the man who can work best 
 if he will, the man whose feeling against any authority ia 
 the strongest, and whose feeling against me amounts to 
 bitter enmity." 
 
 ' ' Against you ? But why ? " 
 
 " I suppose because I have no liking for him myself, 
 and because I will have orders obeyed, whether they are 
 my orders or the orders of the owners. I will have work 
 done as it should be done, and I will not be frightened by 
 bullies." 
 
 "' But if he is a dangerous man ". 
 
 " He would knock me down from behind, or spoil my 
 beauty with vitriol as coolly 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 his 
 mood has not quite come to that yet. Just now he feels 
 that he would like to have a row, and really, if we could 
 have a row, it would be the best thing for us both. If 
 one of us could thrash the other at the outset, it might 
 never come to the vitriol." 
 
 He was cool enough himself, and spoke in quite a 
 matter-of-fact way, but Anice suddenly lost her color. 
 When, later, she bade him good-night 
 
 " 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 I said of Lowrie 3 " 
 
56 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 " Yes. It is so horrible. I cannot bear the thought ol 
 it. I am not used to hear of such things. I am afraid 
 for you." 
 
 " You are very good," he said, his strong hand return 
 ing her grasp with warm gratitude. " But I am sorry I 
 said so much, if I have frightened you. I ought to have 
 remembered how new such things were to you. It is noth- 
 ing, I assure you." And bidding her good-night again, 
 he went away quite warmed at heart by her innocent 
 interest in him, but blaming himself not a little for his 
 indiscretion. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 .OAN AJJD THE CHILD. 
 
 T;> the you:.g curate's great wonder, on his first visit to 
 her after the advent of Liz and her child, Joan changed 
 her manner towards him. She did not attempt to repel 
 him, she even bade him welcome in a way of her own. 
 Deep in Joan's heart was hidden a fancy that perhaps the 
 work of this young fellow who was " good enow fur a par- 
 eon," lay with such as Liz, and those who like Liz bore 
 a heavy burden. 
 
 " If yo' can do her any good," she said, " come and 
 welcome. Come every day. I dunnot know much about 
 Buch like mysen, but happen yo' ha' a way o' 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, childish way, as her only comfort. She could 
 do nothing for herself, she could only obey Joan's dic- 
 tates, and this she did in listless misery. When she had 
 work to do, she made weak efforts at doing it, and when 
 she had none she sat and held the child upon her knee, 
 her eyes following her friend with a vague appeal. The 
 discomfort of hor lot, the wretchedness of coming back to 
 bhame and jeers, after a brief season of pleasure and lux- 
 ury, was what crushed her. So long as her lover had cared 
 for her, and she had felt no 1 3ar of hunger or cold, or deser- 
 tion, she had been happy happy because she could be idle 
 
58 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIET8. 
 
 and take 1:0 thought for the morrow, and was almost a lady. 
 But now all that was over. She had come to the bitter 
 dregs of the cup. She was thrown on her own resources, 
 nobody cared for her, nobody helped her but Joan, no- 
 body called her pretty and praised her ways. She was not 
 to be a lady after adl, she must work for her living and it 
 must be a poor one too. There would be no fine clothes, no 
 nice rooms, no flattery and sugar-plums. Everything would 
 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 helpless than herself, always to be clothed 
 and taken care of, when she could not take care of herself, 
 always in the way, always crying and wailing and troubling 
 day and night. She almost blamed the baby for every 
 thing. Perhaps she would not have lost her lover if it had 
 not been for the baby. Perhaps he knew what a trouble 
 it would be, and wanted to be rid of her before it came, 
 and that was why he had gone away. The night Joan had 
 brought her home she had taken care of the child, and 
 told Liz to sit down and rest, and had sat down herself 
 with the small creature in her arms, and after watching 
 her for a while, Liz had broken out into sobs, and slipped 
 down upon the floor at her feet, hiding her wretched, 
 pretty face upon her friend's knee. 
 
 " I oanna abide the sight o' it," she cried. " I canna see 
 what it wur born fur, mysen. I wish I'd deed when I wur 
 i' Lunnon when Tie cared fur mo. He wor fond enow o' 
 me at th' first. He could na abide me to be out o' his 
 sight. I nivver wur so happy i' my life as I wur then. 
 Aye! I did na think then, as th' tcime ud come when he'd 
 cast me out i' th' road. He had no reet to do it," her voice 
 rising hysterically. " He had no reet to do it, if he wur 
 a gentleman ; but it seems gentlefolk can do owt thej 
 
JOAN AND THE CHILD. 59 
 
 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 Juan bitterly, " but 
 if I wur i' yo're place, Liz, I would na hate th' choild. Jt 
 lias na done yo' asmnch harm 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' a reason fur .wantin' to know, or 1 would na 
 ax, but fur a' that if yo' dunnot 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. " 1 would na 
 tell nobody but yo'. It would na do no good, an' I dun- 
 not care to do harm. Yo'll keep it to yo'rsen, if I tell yo', 
 Joan ? >' 
 
 "Aye," Joan answered, "as long as it needs be kept to 
 mysen. I am na one to clatter." 
 
 " Well," said Liz with a sob, " it wur Mester Landsell I 
 vent wi' young Mester Landsell Mester Ralph." 
 
 " I thout as much," said Joan, her face darkening. 
 
 She had had her suspicions from the first, when Mr. 
 Ralph Landsell had come to Riggan with his father, who 
 vvas one of the mining company. He was a graceful, 
 fair-faced young fellow, with an open hand and the air of 
 & potentate, and his grandeur had pleased Liz. She was 
 not used to flattery and " fine London waj^s," and her 
 vanity made her an easy victim. 
 
 " He wur allus after me," she said, with fresh tears. 
 " He nivver let me be till I promised to go. lie said he 
 would make a lady o' me an' he wur allus givin' me 
 things. He wui fond o' me at first, that he wur, an' I 
 wur fond o' him. I nivver seed no one loike him afore. 
 
60 THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 Oh 1 it's hard, it is. Oh ! it's bitter hard an' sruel, as it 
 should come to this." 
 
 And she wailed and sobbed until she wore herself out, 
 and wearied Joan to the very soul. 
 
 But Joan bore with her and n ver showed impatience 
 Ly word or deed. Childish petulances and plaints fell 
 upon her like water upon a rock but now and then the 
 strong nature was rasped beyond endurance by the weak 
 one. She had taken no small task upon herself when she 
 gave Liz her 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 whom there seemed 
 no place in the world, or in any pitying heart the child 
 for whom Liz felt nothing but vague dislike and resent- 
 ment tho child laid its light but powerful hand upon Joan. 
 Once or twice she noticed as she moved about the room 
 that the little creature's eyes would follow her in a way 
 something like its mother's, as if with appeal to her 
 superior strength. She fell gradually into the habit of 
 giving it more attention. It was so little and light, so 
 easily taken from Liz's careless hold when it was restless, 
 so easily carried to and fro, as she went about her 
 household tasks. She had never known much about 
 babies until 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 die was at home 
 it was rarely out of her arms. It was no source of weari- 
 ness to her perfect strength. She carried it Lore and 
 there, she cradled it upon her knees, when she sat down 
 by the fire to rest ; she learned in time a hundred gentle 
 woman's ways through its presence. Her step became 
 lighter, her voice softer a heavy tread, cr a harsh tone 
 
JOAN AND THE CHILD. 61 
 
 might waken the child. For the child's sake she dcffed 
 her uncouth working-dress when she entered the house ; 
 for the child's sake she made an effort to brighten tl.ie 
 dullness, and soften the roughness of their surroundino-s. 
 
 o o 
 
 The Reverend Paul, in his visits to the house, observed 
 with tremor, the subtle changes wrought in her. Catch 
 ing at the straw of her negative welcome, he went to see 
 Liz whenever he could find a tangible excuse. He had a 
 sensitive dread cf intruding even upon the poor privacy 
 of the " lower orders," and he could rarely bring himself 
 to the point of taking them by storm as a mere matter 
 of ecclesiastical routine. But the 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 
 success with her. And yet how could he make way 
 against her indifference. He even felt himself a trine 
 spell-bound in her presence. He often found himself 
 watching her as she moved to and fro, watdiing her as 
 Liz and the child did. 
 
 But " th' parson " was " th' parson " to her still. A 
 good-natured, simple little fellow, who might be a trifle 
 better than other folks, but who certainly seemed weaker; 
 a frail little gentleman iu spectacles, who was afraid of 
 her, or was at least easily confounded ; who might be of 
 use to Liz, but who was not in her line, better in his way 
 than his master in his ; but still a person to be regarded 
 "vith 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 and parishioners, led 
 naturally to the frequent discussion of Joan Lowrie 
 among the rest. Over tea and toast in the small parlor 
 the two men often drew comfort f join each other. "When 
 
62 THAT LASS 0' LLWRl&S. 
 
 Derrick stiv>de into the little place and threw himseU 
 into his favorite chair, with knit brows and weary irrita 
 tion in his air, Grace was always ready to detect his 
 mood, and wait for him to reveal himself ; or when Grace 
 looked up at his friend's entrance with a heavy, pained 
 look on his face, Derrick was equally quick to compro 
 herd. There was one trouble in which Derrick specially 
 sympathized with his friend. This was in his feeling foi 
 A nice. 
 
 Duty called Paul frequently to the house, ar.d hia 
 position with regard to its inhabitants was necessarily 
 familiar. Mr. Barholm did not spare his curate ; he waa 
 ready to delegate to him all labor in which he -was not 
 specially interested himself, or which he regarded as 
 scarcely worthy of his mettle. 
 
 " Grace makes himself very useful in some cases," he 
 would say ; " a certain kind of work suits him, and he is 
 able to do himself justice in it. He is a worthy enough 
 young fellow in a certain groove, but it is always best to 
 confine him to that groove." 
 
 So, when there was an ordinary sermon to be preached, 
 or a commonplace piece of work to be done, it was handed 
 over to Grace, with a few tolerant words of advice or com- 
 ment, and as commonplace work was rather the 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, so frank and full of trust in him, that it 
 was not to be wondered at that each day only fixed her 
 more firmly in his heart. Nothing of his conscientious 
 labor was lost upon her ; nothing of his self-sacrifice and 
 trial was passed by indifferently in her thoughts of him ; 
 his pain and his effort went to her very heart Her belief 
 in him was so strong that she never hesitated to carry any 
 
JOAN AND THE CHIL^. 63 
 
 little bewilderment to him or to speak to him openly upon 
 any subject. Small marvel, that he found it delicious 
 pain to go to the house day after day, feeling himself sc 
 near to her, yet knowing himself so far from any hope of 
 reaching the sealed chamber of her heart. 
 
 Notwithstanding her knowledge of her inability to alter 
 his position, An ice still managed to exert some slight influ- 
 ence over her friend's fate. 
 
 " Do you not think, papa, that Mr. Grace has a great 
 deal to do ? " she suggested 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 leave anything very important to 
 Grace. You do not mean, my dear, that you fancy ho 
 has too much to do 1 " 
 
 "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, you know, papa if you 
 could share it with him, I should think it would m&ke it 
 easier for him." 
 
 " My dear Anice," the rector protested ; " if Grace had 
 my responsibilities to carry on his shoulders, but I do 
 not leave my responsibilities to him. In my opinion ho ia 
 hardly fitted to bear them they are not in his line ; " but 
 seeing ** dubious look on the delicate face opposite him 
 " but if you .think the young fellow has really too much to 
 do, I will try to take some of these minor matters upon 
 myself. I am equal to a good deal of hard work," evi- 
 dently 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 best plan. It was one oi 
 
64 THAT LASS 0' LOW1USTS. 
 
 the good rector's weaknesses, to dislike to find his course 
 disapproved even by a wholly uninfluential critic, and hia 
 daughter was by no means an uninfluential critic. lie 
 was naver exactly comfortable when her views did not 
 strictly accord with his own. To find that Ai.ice wae 
 regarding a favorite whim with questioning, was for 
 him to begin to falter a trifle inwardly, however testily 
 rebellious lie might feel. He was a man who thrived 
 under encouragement, and sank at once before failure ; 
 failure was unpleasant, and he rarely contended long 
 against unpleasantness ; it was not a " fair wind and no 
 favor " with him, he wanted both the fair wind and the 
 favor, and if either failed him he felt himself rather badly 
 used. So it was, through this discreetly exerted influence 
 of Anice's, that Grace, to his surprise, found some irk- 
 some tasks taken from his shoulders at this time. lie did 
 not know that i ; was Anice he had to thank for the tem- 
 porary relief. 
 
CHAPTER TIL 
 
 ANICE AT THE COTTAGE. 
 
 ANICE went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told 3 
 ehe went to see Joan more than to visit Joan's protegee^ 
 though her interest extended from the one to the other. 
 But she did not see Joan, she only heard of her. Liz 
 met her visitor without any manifestations of enthusiasm. 
 She was grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful 
 emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat 
 before she had been in the house ten 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 and transgres- 
 sions ; having her mind set at ease thus far, she found 
 time to be interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her 
 prettiness of toilet, a certain delicate grace of presence, 
 were all virtues in Liz's eyes. She was so fond of pretty 
 things herself, she had been wont to feel such pleasure 
 and pride in her own beauty, that such outward charms 
 were the 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 the child as it lay on 
 her knee. She even had the courage tc regard the mate- 
 rial of her dress with some degree of interest. 
 
 " Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon," she ventured, wist- 
 fully touching the pretty silk with her finger. " Theer's 
 loan sich i' Biggan." 
 
t>6 THAT LASS ff LOWRIETS. 
 
 " Yes," answered Anice, letting the baby's Land cling 
 to her fingers. " I bought it in London." 
 
 Liz touched it again, and this time the wistfulness in 
 her touch crept up to her eyes, mingled with a little fret- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon," she said. 
 " It's the grandest place i' th' world. I dnnnot wonder 
 as th' queen lives theer. I wur happy aw th' toime I 
 wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life. I I can- 
 na hardly bear to think on it it gi'es me such a wearyin' 
 an' longin' ; 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' noight hungerin' an' cry- 
 in' 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 sight of the silk dress had brought back to 
 her mind her lost bit of paradise as nothing else would 
 have done her own small store of finery, the gayety 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 pretty baby. Perhaps if it lives, it may be a 
 comfort to you some day." 
 
 " Nay ! it wunnot ; " said Liz, regarding it resentfully 
 "I nivver could tak' no comfort in it. It's nowt but a 
 trouble. I dunnot loike it. I canna. It would be bottej 
 
ANICE AT THE (JOTTAGE. G7 
 
 if it would na live. I canna tell wheer Joan Lowrie gets 
 her patience fro'. I ha' no patience with the little marred 
 thing mysen all us whimperin' an' cry in' ; I duimot know 
 what to do wi' it half th' toime." 
 
 Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down uj on a 
 low wooden stool, held it gently, looking at its small round 
 face , It was a pretty little creature, pretty with Liz's 
 own >eauty, or at least, with the baby promise of it 
 Anice stooped and kissed it, her heart stirred by the 
 feebly-strong clasp of the tiny fingers. 
 
 During the remainder of her visit, she sat holding the 
 child on her knee, and talking to it as well as to its mother. 
 But she made no attempt to bring Liz to what Mr. Bar- 
 holm had called, " a fitting sense of her condition." She 
 was not fully settled in her opinion as to what Liz's 
 " fitting sense " would be. So she simply made an effort 
 to please her, and awaken her to interest, and she suc- 
 ceeded very well. When she went away, the girl was 
 evidently sorry to sea her go. 
 
 " I dunnot often want to see folk twice," she said, look- 
 ing at her shyly, " but I'd loike to see yo'. Yo're not 
 loike th' rest. Yo' dunnot harry me wi' 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 to talk of her, and certainly Anice had 
 been quite ready to listen. 
 
 " She is aa easy to mak' out, 1 ' said Liz, "an' p'r'aps 
 that's th' reason why 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, and Bornetimes he did not, 
 
68 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 During the warm weather, he saw her often at the door ; 
 or near the gate ; almost always with the child in her 
 arms. There was no awkward shrinking in her manner 
 at such times, no vestige of the clumsy consciousness 
 usually exhibited by girls of her class. She met his glance 
 with a grave quietude, scarcely touched with interest, ho 
 thought ; he never observed that she smiled, though lie 
 was uncomfortably conscious now and then that she stood 
 wid calmly watched him out of sight. 
 
CHAPTER YJ1I. 
 
 THE WAGEK OF BATTLE. 
 
 "OwD Sammy Craddock" rose from his chair, ar.d 
 gaing to the mantle-piece, took down a tobacco jar of red 
 and yellow delft, and proceeded to fill his pipe with 
 solemn ceremony. It was a large, deep clay pipe, and 
 held a great deal of tobacco particularly when filled 
 from the store of an acquaintance. " It's a good enow 
 pipe to borrow wi'," Sammy was wont to remark. In 
 the second place, Mr. Craddock drew forth a goodly por- 
 tion of the weed, and pressed it down with ease and pre- 
 cision into the top of the foreign gentleman's turban which 
 constituted the bowl. Then he lighted it with a piece 
 of paper, remarking to his wife between long indrawn 
 puffs, " I'm goin' to th' Public." 
 
 The good woman did not receive the intelligence as 
 amicably as it had been given. 
 
 " Aye," she said, " I'll warrant tha art. When tha art 
 na fillin' thy belly tha art generally either goin' to th' 
 Public, or comin' whoam. Aw Riggan ud go to ruin if 
 tha wert na at th' Public fro' morn till neet looking after 
 other folkses business. It's well for th' toun as tha'st get- 
 ten nowt else to do." 
 
 Sammy puffed away at his pipe, without any appear- 
 ance of disturbance. 
 
 "Aye," he consented dryly, "it is, that. It ad be a 
 
70 THAT LASS 0' LOWIUE'S. 
 
 bad thing to ha' th' pits stop workin' aw because I had na 
 attended to 'en:, an' gi'en th' mesters a bit o' encourage- 
 ment. Tha sees mine's what th' gentlefolk ca' a responsi- 
 ble position i' society. Th' biggest trouble I ha', is settlin' 
 i' my moind what th' world 'ill do when I turn up my 
 toes to th' daisies, an' how the government?!! mak' up 
 their moinds who shall ha' th' honor o' payin' for th' 
 moniment." 
 
 In Mr. Craddock's opinion, his skill in the solution oi 
 political and social problems was only equaled by hia 
 aptitude in managing the weaker sex. He never lost hia 
 temper with a woman. He might be sarcastic, he was some- 
 times even severe in his retorts, but he was never violent. 
 In any one else but Mr. Craddock, such conduct might have 
 been considered weak by the male population of Riggan, 
 who not unfrequently settled their trifling domestic diffi- 
 culties with the poker and tongs, chairs, or flat-irons, or 
 indeed with any portable piece of household furniture. 
 But Mr. Craddock's way of disposing of feminine antag- 
 onists was tolerated. It was pretty well known that Mrs. 
 Craddock had a temper, and since he could manage her, 
 it was not worth while to criticise the method. 
 
 " Tha'rt an owd yommer-head," said Mrs. Craddock, as 
 oracularly as if she had never made the observation before. 
 " Tha deserves what tha has na gotten." 
 
 " Aye, that I do," with an air of amiable regret. " Tha'rt 
 reet theer fur once i' thy loife. Th' country has na done 
 its duty by me. If I'd had aw I deserved I'd been th' 
 Lord Mayor o' Lunnon by this toime, an' tha'd a been th' 
 Lady Mayoress, settin up i' thy parlor wi' a gookl crown 
 atop o' thy owd head, sortin' out thy cloathes fur th' wesh 
 woman i'stead o' dollyin' out thy bits o' duds fur thy sen. 
 Tha'rt reet, owd lass tha'rt reet enow." 
 
THE WAGER OF BATTLE. 71 
 
 "Go thy ways to th' Public/' retorted the old dame, 
 d.'lven to desperation. "I'm tired o' hearkenin' to thee 
 Get thee gone to th' Public, or we'st ha' th' world stand- 
 in' still ; an' moind tha do'st na set th' horse-ponds afire 
 as tha goes by 'em." 
 
 I'll be keerful, owd lass," chuckled Sammy, taking 
 iiis stick. " I'll be keerful 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 dis- 
 cussion in progress. Discussions were always being car- 
 ried on there in fact, but this time it was not Craddock's 
 particular friends who were busy. There were grades 
 even among the visitors at The Crown, and there were 
 
 O * 
 
 several grades below Sammy's. The lowest was composed 
 of the most disreputable of the colliers men who with 
 Lowrie at their head were generally in some mischief. 
 It was these men who were talking together loudly this 
 evening, and as usual, Lowrie was the loudest in the party. 
 They did not seem to be quarreling. Three or four sat 
 round a table listening to Lowrie 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 what mysen. Summat about one o' th' 
 mesters as they're out wi'. What'll tha tak', owd lad 2" 
 
 " A pint o' sixpenny." And then with another sidelong 
 glance at the debaters: 
 
 " They're an ill set, that lot, an' up to summat ill too, 
 I'll warrant. He's not th' reet soart, that Lowrie." 
 
 Lowrie was a burly fellow with a surly, sometimes fero- 
 cious, expression. Drink made a madman of him, and 
 among his companions he ruled supreme through sheer 
 physical superiority. The man who quarreled with him 
 
72 TEAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 might be sure of broken bones, if not of something worse 
 He leaned over the table now, scowling as he spoke. 
 
 " I'll ha' no lads meddlin' an' settin' th' mesters agen 
 me" Craddock heard him say. " Them on yo' as loikea 
 to tak' cheek mnn tak' it, I'm too owd a bird fur that 
 soart o' feed. It sticks i' my crop. Look thee out o' thai 
 theer window, Jock, and watch who passes. I'll punse 
 that lad into th' middle o' next week, as sure as he goe? 
 by." 
 
 " Well," commented one of his companions, " aw I've 
 gotten to say is, as tha'll be loike to ha' a punse on it, f u) 
 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 is it ? Theer's a f eight on bond. That's 
 reet, my lads, lay in thy beer, an' mak' dom'd fool's 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 prided himself particularly upon " showing hip 
 muscle," in Riggan parlance, but he had never been such 
 a man as Lowrie. His comparatively gentlemanly en- 
 counters with personal friends had always been fair and 
 square, and in many cases had laid the foundation for 
 future toleration, even amiability. He had never hesi- 
 tated to "tak' a punse" at an offending individual, but 
 he had always been equally ready to shake hands when 
 all was over, and in some cases, when having temporarily 
 closed a companion's eyes in the heat of an argument 
 
THE WAGER OP BATTLE. 73 
 
 he had been known to lead him tc the counter of " th' Pub 
 lie," and bestow nectar upon him in the form of *' six- 
 penny." But of Lowrie, even the fighting community j 
 which was the community predominating in Riggan, 
 could not speak so well. He was " ill-farrant," and. 
 revengeful, ready to fight, but not ready to forgive. 
 He had been known to bear a grudge, and remember it, 
 when it had been forgotten by other people. His record 
 was not a clean one, and accordingly he was not a favorite 
 of Sammy Craddock's. 
 
 A short time afterward somebody passed the window 
 facing the street, and Lowrie 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 Craddock and 
 his companion had time to reach the open window, and he 
 had stopped the passer-by, who paused to confront him 
 haughtily. 
 
 " Why ! " cried Sammy, slapping his knee, " I'm dom'd 
 if it is na th' Lunnon engineer chap." 
 
 Fergus Derrick stood before his enemy with anything 
 but a propitiatory air. That this brutal fellow who had 
 caused him trouble enough already, should interfere with 
 his very progress in the street, was too much for his high 
 spirit to bear. 
 
 "I comn out here," said 1 Lowrie, " to see if tha had owt 
 fo say to me." 
 
 " Then," replied Fergus, " you may go in again, for J 
 have nothing." 
 
 Lowrie drew a step nearer to him. 
 
 "Art tha sure o' that?" he demanded. " Tha wert so 
 ready wi' thy gab about th' Davys this mornir/ I thowf 
 4 
 
74 THAT LASK 0' LOWRIET8 
 
 happen tha'd lo\ke to say suramat more if a mon ud gi' yo 
 a chance. Bnt happen agen yo're one o' th' eoart aa 
 sticks to gab an' goes no further." 
 
 Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a 
 contemptuous gesture. 
 
 " Out of the way," he said, in a suppressed voice, "and 
 let me pass." 
 
 But Lovvrie only came nearer. 
 
 "Nay, but I wuunot," he said, " until I've said my say. 
 Tha wert goin' to mak' me obey th' rules or let th' 
 mesters hear on it, wert tha? Tha \vert goin' to keep 
 thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, wert tha* 
 Well, th' toime has na come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' 
 thee a thrashin'." 
 
 He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would 
 have flung to the earth any man who had not possessed 
 the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrick managed to 
 preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could 
 not control himself. Naturally, he had longed to thrash 
 this fellow soundly often enough, and now that ho 
 had been attacked by him, he felt forbearance to be no 
 virtue. Brute force could best conquer brute nature. 
 He felt that he would rather die a thousand deaths than 
 be conquered himself. He put forth all his strength in 
 an effort that awakened the crowd which had speedily 
 surrounded them, Owd Sammy among the number to 
 wild admiration. 
 
 "Get thee unto it, lad," cried the old sinner in an 
 ecstasy of approbation, " Get thee unto it ! Tha'ri 
 shapin' reet I see. Why, I'm dom'd," slapping his knee 
 as usual " I'm dom'd if he is na goin' to mill Dan 
 Lowrie ! " 
 
 To the amazement of the by-standers, it became evident 
 
THE WAGER OF BATTLE. 75 
 
 Jn a very short time, that Lowrie had met his match. 
 Finding it necessary to defend himself, Derrick was going 
 to do something more. The result was that the breathless 
 struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie lay 
 upon the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him 
 pale, fierce and panting. 
 
 "Look to him," he said to the men about him, in a 
 white heat, " and remember that the fellow provoked me 
 to it. If he tries it again, I will try again too." A-iid he 
 turned on his heel and walked away. 
 
 He had been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than 
 most men would have been, but he had disposed of his 
 enemy effectually. The fellow lay stunned upon the 
 ground. In his fall, he had cut his head upon the curb- 
 stone, and the blood streamed from the wound when hia 
 companions crowded near, and raised him. Owd Sammy 
 Craddock offered no assistance ; he leaned upon his stick, 
 and looked on with grim satisfaction. 
 
 " Tlia's getten what tha deserved, owd lad," he said 
 in an undertone. "An' tha'st getten no more. 1'sl 
 owe th' Lunnon chap one fro' this on. He's done a bit 
 o' work as I'd ha' takken i' bond 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 angry excitement over, he began to feel so sharp an 
 ache in his wrist, that he made up his mind to rest for a 
 few minutes at Grace's lodgings before going home. It 
 would be wise to know the extent of his injury. 
 
 Accordingly, he made his appearance in the parlor, 
 somewhat startling his friend, who was at supper. 
 
 " My dear Fergus ! " exclaimed Paul. '< How excited 
 vou look I " 
 
76 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&S. 
 
 Derrick flung himself into a chair, feeling rather du- 
 bious about his strength, all at once. 
 
 "Do I ? " he said, with a faint smile. " Don't be 
 alarmed, Grace, I have no doubt I look as I feel. I have 
 been having a brush with that scoundrel Lowrie, and 1 
 believe something has happened to my wrist." 
 
 He made an effort to raise his left hand and failed, 
 succumbing to a pain so intense that it forced an excia- 
 mation from him. 
 
 " I thought it was a sprain," he said, when he recovered 
 himself, " but it is a job for a surgeon. It is broken." 
 
 And so it proved under the examination of the nearest 
 practitioner, and then Derrick remembered a wrench 
 and shock which he had felt in Lowrie's last desperate 
 effort to recover himself. Some of the small bones had 
 broken. 
 
 Grace called in the surgeon liiinself, and stood by during 
 the strapping and 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 be obliged to leave you for half an 
 hour, I assure you I shall not be away a longer time." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " asked Derrick. 
 
 "To the Rectory. Mr. Earholm sent a message an 
 hour ago, that he wished to see me upon business." 
 
 Fergus agreed to remain. When Grace was on (he 
 point of leaving the room, he turned his head. 
 
 " Ton are going to the Rectory, you saj ? " he re 
 marked. 
 
 " Yes. " 
 
 u Do you think you shall see Anice ? " 
 
THE WAGER <Jv BATTLE. 77 
 
 u 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 wel 1 that his 
 frie'nd did not see. A shadow of bewilderment and 
 anxiety fell upon it and the color faded away. 
 
 " You think" faltered he. 
 
 " Well, I thought that perhaps it would shock ct alarm 
 her," answered Derrick. " She might fancy it to bavo 
 been a more serious matter than it was." 
 
 " Yery well. I think you are right, perhaps.** 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE NEWS AT THE KECTOET. 
 
 IF she did not hoar of the incident from Grace, Anico 
 heard of it from another quarter. 
 
 The day following, the village was ringing with the 
 particulars of " th' f eight betwix' th' Lunnon chap an' 
 Dan Lowrie." 
 
 Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. BarholiB 
 returned to luncheon in a state of great excitement. 
 
 " Dear me ! " he began, almost as soon as he entered 
 the room. " Bless my life ! 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 has had a very unpleasant affair with 
 one of the men who work under him no other than that 
 Lowrie the young woman's father. They are a bad lot 
 it seems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and 
 attacked him openly, and in the most brutal manner, as 
 he was going through the village yesterday evening." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " cried Anice. " Oh ! papa," and sh 
 put her hand upon the table as if she needed support. 
 
 " There is not the slightest doubt," was the answer, 
 " everybody is talking about it. It appears that it is one 
 of the strictest rules of the mine that the men shall keep 
 their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pit indeed 
 
THE NJS Fftf AT THE RECTORY. 79 
 
 they are directed to deliver up their keys before gv.ing 
 down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie 
 had procured a false key, gave him a rather severe rating 
 about it, and threatened to report him, and the end of the 
 matter was the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is, that 
 Derrick came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow 
 a sound thrashing. There is a good deal of force in that 
 young man," he said, rubbing his hands. " There is a good 
 deal of of pluck in him as we used to say at Oxford." 
 
 Anice shrank from her father's evident enjoyment, feel- 
 ing a mixture of discomfort and dread. Suppose the. 
 tables had turned the other way. Suppose it had been 
 Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of horrible 
 things done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie 
 would not have paused where Derrick did. The news- 
 papers told direful tales of such struggles ending in the 
 conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten out of life. 
 
 "It is very strange," she said, almost impatiently. 
 " Mr. Grace must have known, and yet he said nothing. 
 I wish he would come." 
 
 As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, 
 and the Curate was announced. He was obliged to drop 
 in at all sorts of unceremonious hours, and to-day some 
 school business had brought him. The Rector turned to 
 greet him with unwonted warmth. " The very man we 
 want," he exclaimed. "Anice was just wishing for you 
 We have been talking of this difficulty between Derrick 
 and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear what you know 
 about it." 
 
 Grace glanced at Anice uneasily. 
 
 " We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite unin- 
 jured," she said. " Papa did not hear that he was hurt 
 at all, but you will be able to tell us." 
 
80 
 
 There was an expression in her upraised eyes the Curate 
 had never seen there. 
 
 "He met with an injury," he answered, " but it waa 
 not a severe one. He came to my rooms last night and 
 remained with me. His wrist is fractured." 
 
 He was not desirous of discussing the subject very 
 freely, it was evident, 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 of what he 
 knew. In his secret heart, he shrank from it with a 
 dread far more nervous than Anice's. He had doubts of 
 his own concerning Lowrie's action 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 
 tfent into a small conservatory 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 ; " why did you not ? " 
 
 " It was Derrick's forethought for you," he answered. 
 " He was afraid that the story would alarm you, and as I 
 agreed with him that it might, I remained 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 
 ir.convenient one." 
 
 " I am very sorry ; please tell him so. And, Mr 
 Grace, when he feels able to come here, I have something 
 co say to him." 
 
 Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very 
 night with his arm m splints and bandages. 
 

 THE NEWS AT THE RECTORY. 81 
 
 It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to 
 him ; Mrs. Barholm's gentle heart went out to the hanc 
 Borne invalid. She had never had a son of her own 
 though it must be confessed she had yearned for one; 
 strong and deep as was her affection for her girl. 
 
 But it was not till Derrick bade Anice good-night, that 
 he heard what she intended to say to him. When he was 
 going, just as he stepped across the threshold of the en- 
 trance door, she stopped him. 
 
 "Wait a minute, if you will be so good," she said, " I 
 have something to ask 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 a very 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 night and though it was very kind of you, I 
 did not like it. You must not think that because these 
 things are new and shock me, I am not strong enough to 
 trust in. I am stronger than I look." 
 
 " My dear Miss Barholm," he protested, " I arn sure oi 
 that. I ought to have known better. Forgive me if " 
 
 " Oh," she interposed, " you must not blame yourself. 
 But I wanted to ask you to be so kind as to think better of 
 me than that. I want to be sure that if ever I can be of 
 use to anybody, you will not stop to think of the danger or 
 annoyance. Such a time may never come, but if it does " 
 
 " I shall certainly reraemVcr what ycu have said," Fer 
 gus ended for her. 
 4* 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 ON THE KNOLL ROAD. 
 
 THE moon was shining brightly when he stepped intc 
 the open road so brightly that he could see every object 
 far before him unless where the trees cast their black 
 shadows, which seemed all the blacker for the light. 
 " 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 one was standing motionless ; 
 as he approached, the figure stepped boldly out into 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 ! " ho said with surprise. " What has 
 brought you out at this hour, and whom are you waiting 
 for?" 
 
 " I'm waiting for yo'rsen," she answered. 
 
 For me ? " 
 
 " Aye ; I ha' sum mat to say to you." 
 
 She looked about her hurriedly. 
 
 "Yo'd better come into th' shade o' them t-ees," she 
 said, " I dunnot want 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 been forced into entrapping him I 
 
 She made a sharp gesture. 
 
ON' TUB KNOLL ROAD. 83 
 
 "1 am na goin' to do no harm," she said. "Yo' maj 
 trust me. It's th' other way about." 
 
 " I ask pardon," he said, feeling heartily ashamed of 
 himself the next instant, " but you know " 
 
 " Aye," impatiently, as they passed into the shadow, 
 " I know, or I should na be here now " 
 
 A moonbeam, finding its way through a rift in the 
 boughs and falling on her face, showed him that she was 
 very pale. 
 
 " Yo' wonder as I'm here at aw," she said, not meeting 
 his eyes as she spoke, " but yo' did me a good turn onct, 
 an' I ha' na had so many done me i' my loife as I can 
 forget one on 'em. I'm come here fur I may as well 
 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 much grudge 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 reetto be 
 goin' out loike this," glancing at his bandaged arm. 
 " How could tha help thysen if he were to set on thee. 
 Tha had better tak' heed, I tell thee." 
 
 " I am very much indebted to you," began Fergus. 
 
 She stopped him. 
 
 "Tha did me a good turn," she said. And then hei 
 voice changed. "Dan Lowrie's my feyther, an' I've stuck 
 to him, I dunnot know why happen cause I never had 
 nowt else to hold to and do for ; but feyther or no feyther 
 I know he's a bad un when th' fit's on an' he has a spite 
 agen a mon. So tak' care, I tell thee agen. Theer now. 
 
84 THAT LASS O 1 LO WRISTS. 
 
 I've done. Will tha walk on first an' let me follow 
 thee?" 
 
 Something in her mode of making this suggestion im- 
 pressed him singularly. 
 
 " I do not quite understand " he said. 
 
 She turned and looked at him, her face white and reso- 
 lute. 
 
 " I dunnot want harm done," she answered. " I will na 
 ha' harm done if I. con help it, an' if I mun speak th' 
 truth I know theer's harm afoot to-neet. If I'm behind 
 thee, theer is na a mon i' Riggan as dare lay hond on thee 
 to my face, if I am nowt but a lass. That's why I ax thee 
 to let me keep i' soight." 
 
 " You are a brave woman," he said, " and I will do ap 
 you tell me, but I feel 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. At this involuntary act of homage for it waa 
 nothing less Joan Lowrie looked 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 fol- 
 lowing at a short distance, so that nobody seeing the one 
 could avoid seeing the other. It was an awkward and 
 trying position for a man of Derrick's temperament, and 
 under some circumstances he would have rebelled against 
 it ; as it was, he could not feel humiliated. 
 
 At a certain dark bend in the road not far from Lowrie'a 
 cottage, Joan halted suddenly and spoke. 
 
 " Feyther," she said, in a clear steady voicf , " is na thai 
 
ON THE KNOLL ROAD. 35 
 
 yo' standin' theer? I thowt yo'd happen to be comin' 
 whoam this way. Wheer has tha been ? " And as he 
 passed on, Derrick caught the sound of a muttered oath, 
 and gained a side glimpse of a heavy, slouching figure 
 comirg stealthily out of the shadow. 
 
CHAPTER Xi. 
 
 SIB AND HIS MASTER MAKE A CALL. 
 
 " floo's a queer little wench," said one of the roughest 
 Rio-ganite matrons, after Anice's first visit. "I wur i ! 
 
 C*O ' 
 
 th' middle o' my weshin when she coom, up to th' 
 neck i' th' suds, and I wur vexed enow when 1 seed her 
 standin' i' th' door, lookin' at me wi' them big eyes o' hers 
 most loike a babby's wonderin' at summat. ' We duri- 
 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 spare if 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, she begins to soart o' dimple up 
 about th' corners o' her mouth as if I'd said summat reight 
 down queer, an' she gi'es a bit o' a laff. ' Well,' she 
 Bays, ' I'm glad o' that. It's a good thing, fur I hav'n't 
 got none/ An' then it turns out that she just stopped fur 
 nowt but to leave some 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 to bring 
 him some. An' what's more, she wouldna coom in, but 
 just gi' it me, an' went her ways, as if she had na been 
 th' Parson's lass at aw, but j ust one o' th' common koind, 
 as knowd how to moind her own business an' leave other 
 folkses a-be." 
 
NIB AND HIS MASTER MAKE A CALL. 87 
 
 The Rigganites became quite accustomed to the sight of 
 Anice's small low phaeton, with its comfortable fat gray 
 pony. She was a pleasant sight herself as she sat in it, 
 her little whip in her small gloved hand, and no one was 
 ever sorry to see her check the gray pony before the door. 
 
 " Anice ! " said Mr. Barholm to his curate, " well ! you 
 see Anice understands these people, and they understand 
 her. She has the faculty of understanding them. There 
 is nothing, you may be assured, Grace, like understanding 
 the lower orders, and entering into their feelings." 
 
 There was one member of Riggan society who had 
 ranged himself among Miss Barholm's disciples from the 
 date of his first acquaintance with her, who was her stanch 
 friend and adviser from that time forward the young 
 master of " th' best tarrier i' Riggan." Neither Jud Bates 
 nor Nib faltered in their joint devotions from the hour of 
 their first introduction to " th' Parson's daughter." When 
 they presented themselves at the Rectory together, the 
 cordiality of Nib's reception had lessened his master's 
 awkwardness. Nib was neither awkward nor one whit 
 abashed upon his entree into a sphere so entirely new to 
 him as a well-ordered, handsomely furnished house. Once 
 inside the parlor, Jud had lost courage and stood fum- 
 bling his ragged cap, but Nib had bounced forward, in the 
 best of good spirits, barking in friendly recognition of 
 Miss Barholm's greeting caress, and licking her hand. 
 Through Nib, Anice contrived to inveigle Jud into conver- 
 sation and make him forget his overwhelming confusion. 
 Catching her first glimpse of the lad as he stood upon 
 the threshold with his dubious garments and his abashed 
 air, she was not quite decided what she was to do with 
 him. But Nib came to her assistance. He forced him- 
 self upon her attention and gave her something to say, and 
 
gg THAT LASS O 1 LOWRTJETS. 
 
 her manner of receiving him was such, that in a fe\v 
 minutes she found Jud sidling toward her, as she half 
 knelt on the hearth patting his favorite's rough back. Jud 
 looked down at her, and she looked up at Jud. 
 
 "Have you taught him to do anything?" she asked. 
 " Does he know any tricks ? " 
 
 " 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 ia 
 nowt as he canna do. He con f eight ony dog as theer is 
 fro' heer to Marfort." And he glowed in all the pride o* 
 possession, and stooped down to pat Nib himself. 
 
 He was quite communicative after this. He was a 
 shrewd little fellow and had not spent his ten years iu 
 the mining districts for nothing. He was thoroughly 
 conversant with the ways of the people his young hostess 
 wished to hear about. He had worked in the pits a little, 
 and he had tramped about the country with Nib at his 
 heels a great deal. He was supposed to live with his 
 father and grandmother, but he was left entirely to him- 
 self, unless when he was put to a chance job. He knew 
 Joan Lowrie and pronounced her a " brave un ; " he knew 
 and reverenced " Owd Sammy Craddock ; " he knew 
 Joan's father and evidently regarded him with distrust ; 
 in fact there was not a man, woman or child in the place 
 of whom he did not know something. 
 
 Mr. Barholm happening to enter the room during the 
 interview, found his daughter seated on a low seat with 
 Nib's head on her knee, and Jud a few feet from her. 
 She was so intent on the task of entertaining her guest that 
 she did not hear her father's entrance, and the Reverend 
 Harold left the three together, himself in rather a be 
 wildered frame of mind. 
 
NIB AND HI8 MASTER MAKE A CALL. 89 
 
 " Do you know ? " he asked of his wife when he found 
 her, " do you know who it is Anice is amusing in the 
 parlor? What singular fancies the girl has, with all her 
 good sense 1 " 
 
CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 ON GUARD. 
 
 THOUGH they saw comparatively little of each other, 
 the friendly feeling established between Anice and Joan, 
 in their first interview, gained strength gradually as time 
 went on. Coming home from her work at noon or at 
 night, Joan would see traces of Anice's presence, and 
 listen to Liz's praises of her. Liz was fond of her and 
 found comfort in her. The days when the gray pony 
 came to a stop in his jog-trot on the roadside before 
 the gate had a kind of pleasurable excitement in them. 
 They were the sole spice of her life. She understood 
 Anice as little as she understood Joan, but she liked 
 her. She had a vague fancy that in some way Anice was 
 like Joan ; that there was the same strength in her, a 
 strength upon which she herself might depend. And 
 then she found even a stronger attraction in her visitor's 
 personal adornments, in her graceful dress, in any elegant 
 trifle she wore. She liked to look at her clothes and ask 
 questions about them, and wonder how she would look if 
 fbe were the possessor of such beautiful things. 
 
 " She wur loike a pictur," she would say mournfully to 
 Joan. " She had a blue gown on, an' a hat wi 1 blue-bella 
 in it, an' summat white an' soft frilled up round her neck. 
 Eh! it wur pretty. I wish I wur a lady. I dunnot see 
 why ivverybody canna be a lady an' have such loike." 
 
VJT GUARD. 91 
 
 Later Joan got up and went to the child, who lay upon 
 the bed in a corner of the room 
 
 There were thoughts at work within her cf which Liz 
 knew nothing. Liz only looked at her wondering as she 
 took the sleeping baby in her arms, and began to paee 
 the floor, walking to and fro with a slow step. 
 
 t: Have I said owt to vex yo' ? " said Liz. 
 
 " No, lass," was the answer, " it is na thee as worrits me. 
 I con scarce tell 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 not lay the child down again, but carried 
 it in her arms until they went to bed, and even there it 
 lay upon her breast. 
 
 " It's queer to me as yo' should be so fond o' that 
 choild, Joan," said Liz, standing by the side of the bed. 
 
 Joan raised her head from the pillow and looked down 
 at the small face resting upon her bosom, and she touched 
 the baby's cheek lightly with her finger, flushing curi- 
 ously. 
 
 " 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 slumbering quietly, and the child's soft regular 
 breathing was the only sound to be heard in the dark- 
 ened room. Amid the sordid cares and humiliations of 
 Joan's rough life, there had arisen new ones. She had 
 fcecret struggles secret yearnings, and added to these, a 
 secret terror. When she lay awake thinking, she was list- 
 ening for her father's step. There was not a night in 
 which she did not long for, and dread to hear it. If he 
 staid out all night, she went down to her work under a load 
 of foreboding. She feared to look into the faces of hei 
 
92 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIET8. 
 
 work-fellows, lest they should have some evil stoiy to tell - 
 she feared the road over which she had to pass, lest a1 
 some point, its very dust should cry out to her iu a dark 
 stain. She knew her father better than the oldest of hia 
 companions, and she watched him closely. 
 
 " He's what yo' wenches ud ca' a handsum chap, that 
 theer," said Lowrie to 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 I 
 has not quite done wi' him. "Wait till I ha', an' then see 
 what yo'll say about his beauty. Look yo' here, lass," 
 more slowly and heavily still, " 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 tha that ? " 
 
 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, Derrick provided himself with 
 a heavy stick, stuck a pistol into his belt every night when 
 he left his office, and walked home as usual, keeping a 
 sharp look-out, however. 
 
 " If I avoid the fellow," he said to Grace, " he will 
 suspect at once that I feel I have cause to fear him ; and 
 if I give him grounds for such a belief as that I might 
 as well have given way at first. 
 
 Strange to say he was not molested. The excitement 
 Beeuied to die a natural death in the course of a few days, 
 Lowrie came back to his work looking sullen ind hard 
 but he made no open threats, and he even seemed easier 
 to manage. . Certainly Derrick found his companions 
 more respectful and submissive. There was less grum- 
 bling among them and more passive cbedience. The 
 rules were not broken, openly, at least, and he hirnseli 
 
ON GUARD. 93 
 
 was not defied. It was not pleasant to feel that what 
 reason and civility could not do, a tussel had accomplished, 
 but this really seemed to be the truth of the matter, and 
 the result was one which made his responsibilities easier 
 t: bear. 
 
 But during his lonely walks homeward on these summer 
 nights, Derrick made a curious discovery. On one or 
 two occasions he became 'conscious that he had a compan- 
 ion who seemed to act as his escort. It was usually upon 
 dark or unpleasant nights that he observed this, and the 
 first time he caught sight of the figure which always walked 
 on the opposite side of the road, either some distance be- 
 fore or behind him, he put his hand to his belt, not perceiv- 
 ing for some moments that it was not a man but a woman 
 It was a woman's figure, and the knowledge sent the blood 
 to his heart with a rush that quickened its beatings. It 
 might have been chance, he argued, that took her home 
 that night at this particular time ; but when time after 
 time, the same thing occurred, he saw that his argument 
 had lost its plausibility. It was no accident, there was 
 purpose in it ; and though they never spoke to each other 
 or in any manner acknowledged each other's presence, and 
 though often he fancied that she convinced herself that 
 he was not aware of her motive, he knew that Joan's 
 desire to protect him had brought her there. 
 
 He did not speak of this even to Grace. 
 
 One a'fternoon in making her visit at the cottage, Aniro 
 left a message for Joan. She had brought a little plant 
 pot holding a tiny rose-bush in full bloom, and when sho 
 went away she left her message with Liz. 
 
 " I never see your friend when I am here," she said, 
 " will you ask her to come and see me some night when 
 Bhe is not too tired ? " 
 
94 THAT LASS 0' LO WRI&S. 
 
 When Joan came home from her work, the first thing 
 that caught her eye was a lovely bit of color, the little 
 rose-bush blooming on the window-sill where Anice her 
 self had placed it. 
 
 She went and stood before it, and when Liz, who had 
 been temporarily absent, came into the room, she was 
 standing before it still. 
 
 " She browt it," explained Liz, " she wur here this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " 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 want o' me ? " 
 
 " She wants to see thee an' talk to thee, that's what," 
 -answered Liz, " just th' same as if tha was a lady, I 
 tell thee. That's her way o' 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 knee an' 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 allus axin 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 so daft as to offer 'em to me." 
 
 "WeL, 1 nivver did!" exclaimed Liz. "Would na 
 tha tak' 'em? Tha nivver means to say, tha would 
 na tak' 'em, Joan ? Eh ! tha art a queer wench ! Why 
 
ON GUARD. 9* 
 
 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 offel 
 'em to me." 
 
 " I nivver con mak' thee out," Liz said, hi a fret 
 " Tha'rt as grand as if tha wur a lady thysen. Tha'lt 
 tak' nowt fro' nobody." 
 
 " Wheer's th' ehoild ? " asked Joan. 
 
 " She's laid on th' bed," said Liz. " She wur so heavy 
 she tired me an' I gave 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 over the flowers, 
 and inhaling their perfume ; " I w.'sh I had a bit o' ribbon 
 loike 'ein." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 JOAN AND THE PICTURE. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING Anice's interference in his oehalf, 
 Paul did not find his labors become very much lighter. And 
 then after all his labor, the prospect before him was not 
 promising. Instead of appearing easier to cope with as he 
 learned more of it and its inhabitants, Riggan seemed still 
 more baffling. His " district " lay in the lower end of the 
 town among ugly back streets, and alleys ; among dirt and 
 ignorance and obstinacy. He spent his days in laboring 
 among people upon whom he sometimes fancied he had 
 obtained no hold. It really seemed that they did not want 
 him these people; and occasionally a more distressing 
 view of the case presented itself to his troubled mind, 
 namely, that to those who might chance to want him he 
 had little to offer. 
 
 He had his temporal thorn too. He found it difficult 
 to read, hard to fix his mind on his modest sermons ; oc- 
 casionally he even accused himself of forgetting his duty. 
 This had come since the night when he stood at the door 
 and listened to his friend's warning concerning the Rec- 
 tor's daughter. Derrick's words were simple enough in 
 themselves, but they had fallen upon the young Curate's 
 ears with startling significance. He had given this signi- 
 ficance to them himself, in spite of himself, and then 
 all at once he had fallen to wondering why it was that he 
 
JOAN AND THE PICTURE. 97 
 
 had never thought of such a possible denouement bofore. 
 It was so very possible, so very probable; nay, "when he 
 came to think of it seriously, it was only impossible that 
 it should not be. He had often told himself, that some day 
 a lover would come who would be worthy of the woman 
 he had not even hoped to win. And who was more 
 worthy than Fergus Derrick who was more 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 of affection, he would not have felt that there 
 was need for fear. And the two had been thrown so much 
 together and would be thrown together so frequently in the 
 future. He remembered how Fergus had been taken 
 into the family circle, and calling to mind a hundred 
 trifling incidents, smiled at his own blindness. When the 
 next day he received Anice's message, he received it as 
 an almost positive confirmation. It w r as not like her to 
 bestow favors from an idle impulse. 
 
 It was not so easy now to meet the girl in his visits to 
 the Rectory : it was not easy to listen to Mr. Barholm 
 while Anice and Fergus Derrick sat apart and talked. 
 Sometimes he wondered if the time could ever come, when 
 his friend would be less his friend because he had rivaled 
 him. Th idea of such a possibility only brought him fresh 
 pain. His gentle chivalric nature shrank within itself at 
 the thought of the bereavement that double loss would be. 
 There was little room in his mind for the en vies of stronger 
 men. Certainly Fergus had no suspicion of the existence 
 of his secret pain. He found no alteration in his gentle 
 frien I. 
 
 Among the Reverend Paul's private ventures was a 
 small night school which he had managed to establish by 
 slow degrees. He had picked up a reluctant scholar here, 
 
93 THAT LASS 0' LO WRIST 8. 
 
 and one there, two or three pit lads, two or three girls, 
 and two or three men for whose attendance he had 
 worked so hard and waited so long that he was quite 
 surprised at his success in the end. He scarcely knew 
 how he had managed it, but the pupils were there in the 
 dingy room of the National School, waiting for him ou 
 two nights in the week, upon which nights he gave them 
 instruction on a plan of his own. He had thought the 
 matter so little likely to succeed at first, that he had en- 
 gaged in it as a private work, and did not even mention it 
 until his friends discovered it by chance. 
 
 Said Jud Bates to Miss Barholm, during one of theii 
 confidential interviews : 
 
 " 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, but some 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's getten a neet skoo i' th' town, an' he 
 axed me to go, an' I went. I took Nib an' we larned our 
 letters ; leastways I larned mine, an' Nib he listened wi' 
 his ears up, an' th' Par Mester Grace laffed. He wur 
 na vext at Nib comin'. He said ' let him coom, as he wur 
 so owd-fashioned. ' ' 
 
 So Mr. Grace found himself informed upon, and vvia 
 rather abashed at being confronted with his enterprise a 
 few days after by Miss Barholm. 
 
 "I like it," said Anice. "Joan Lowrie learned to 
 
JOAN AND THE PICTURE. 99 
 
 read and write in a night school. Mr. Derrick told 
 me so/' 
 
 A new idea seemed to have been suggested to her. 
 
 "Mr. Grace," she said, " why could not / help you ? 
 Might 1?" 
 
 His delight revealed itself in his face. His first thought 
 was a sellish, unclerical one, and sudden consciousness 
 sent the color to his forehead as he answered her, though 
 he spoke quite calmly. 
 
 " There is no reason why you should not if you choose," 
 he said, " unless Mr. Barholm should object. I need not 
 tell you how grateful I should be." 
 
 "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 at home with it as if she had been there 
 from the first. 
 
 " Hoo's a little mi," said one of the boys, " but hoo 
 does na seem to be easy feart. Hoo does not look a bit 
 tuk back." 
 
 She had never been so near to Paul Grace during their 
 friendship as when she walked home with him. A 
 stronger respect for him was growing in her, a new 
 reverence for his faithfulness. She had always liked and 
 trusted him, but of late she had learned to do more. 
 She recognized more fully the purity and singleness of 
 his life. She accused herself of having underrated him. 
 
 " Please let me help you when I can, Mr. Grace," she 
 said ; " I am not blaming anybody there is no real blame, 
 even if I had the right to attach it to a-ny one; but there 
 are mi stakes now and then, and you must promise me 
 that I may use my influence to prevent them." 
 
100 THAT LASS LOWRIETS 
 
 She had stopped at the gate to say this, and she held 
 out her hand. It was a strange thing that she could be 
 so utterly oblivions of the pain she inflicted. But even 
 Derrick would have taken her hand with less self-control 
 He was so fearful of wounding or disturbing her, that ho 
 n-ac continually on his guard in her presence, and espe- 
 cially when she was thus warm and unguarded herself. 
 
 He had fancied before, sometimes, that she had seen 
 his difficulties, and sympathized with him, but he had 
 never hoped that she would be thus unreserved. His 
 thanks came from the depths of his heart ; he felt that 
 she 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 she made verj 
 steady progress among them. 
 
 By degrees the enterprise was patronized more freely. 
 New pupils dropped in, 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 accept it. 
 She had been his " novelty " she said ; time only would 
 prove whether her usefulness was equal to her power of 
 attraction. 
 
 She had been teaching in the school about three weeks, 
 when a servant came to her one night as she sat reading, 
 with the information that a young woman wished to see 
 her. 
 
 "A fine-looking young woman, Miss," added the girl. 
 u I put her into your own room, as you give orders." 
 
 The room was a quiet place, away from the sounds of 
 the house, which had gradually come to be regarded as 
 Mifrs Barholm's. It was not a large room but it was a 
 pretty one, with -vide windows and a good view, and a* 
 
JOAN AND THE PICTURE. 101 
 
 Anice liked it, her possessions drifted into it until the) 
 filled it, her books, 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 the servants 
 that her village visitors should be taken to it when they 
 came. 
 
 Carrying her book in her hand, she went upstairs. She 
 bad been very much interested in what she was read ing, 
 and had hardly time t > change the channel of her 
 thought. But when she opened the door, she was brought 
 back to earth at once. 
 
 Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ 
 in the last agony, and beneath it was written, k ' It is fin- 
 ished." Before it, as Anice opened the door, stood Joan 
 Lowrie, with Liz's -sleeping child on her bosom. She had 
 come upon the picture suddenly, and it had seized on 
 some deep, reluctant emotion. She had heard some vague 
 history of the Man ; but it was different to find herself in 
 this silent room, confronting the upturned face, the crown, 
 the cross, the anguish and the mystery. She turned 
 toward Anice, forgetting all else but her emotion. She 
 even looked at her for a few seconds in questioning 
 silence, as if waiting for an answer to words she had not 
 spoken. 
 
 When she found her voice, it was of the picture she 
 spoke, not of the real object of her visit. 
 
 " Tha knows," she said, " I dunnot, though I've heerd 
 on it afore. What is it as is finished ? I dunnot quite 
 ee. What is it 2 " 
 
 " 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 
 
102 THAT LASS G 1 LOWRI&S. 
 
 Anice. " I can tell you 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 New Testament tells us how. 
 It is as real as the picture, I think. Did you never read 
 it?" 
 
 The girl's face took an expression of distrust and sullen- 
 ness. 
 
 u Th' Bible has na been i' my line," she answered ; 
 " I've left that to th' parsons an' th' loike ; but th' pictur 
 tnk my eye. It seemt different." 
 
 " Let us sit down," said Anice, " you will be tired o 
 standing." 
 
 When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the 
 child, who was sleeping, lowering her voice for fear of 
 disturbing it. Joan regarded the little thing with a look 
 of half -subdued pride. 
 
 " I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi' me 
 than wi' Liz," she said. "It worrits Liz an' it neer 
 worrits me. I'm so strong, yo' see, I con carry it, an' 
 scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an' it seems to 
 me as it knows it too, fur th' minute she begins to fret it 
 frets too." 
 
 There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, 
 when at lapt she began to explain the object of her 
 errand. Anice could not help fancying that she was im- 
 pelled on her course by some motive whose influence she 
 reluctantly 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 larnt to read theer an' write a bit, but -but 
 
JOAN AND THE PICTURE. 103 
 
 theer's other things I'd loike to know. Tha canst under 
 stand," she added a little abruptly, " I need na tell yo. 
 Little Jud Bates said as yo' had a class o' yore own, an' 
 it comn into my moind as I would ax yo' about it. If 1 
 go to th' skoo I I'd loike to be wi' yo'." 
 
 " You can come to me," said Anice. " And do you 
 know, I think you can help me." This thought had 
 occurred to her suddenly. " I am sure you can help me/' 
 she repeated. 
 
 When Joan at last started to go away, she paused be- 
 fore the picture, hesitating for a moment, and then she 
 turned to Anice again. 
 
 " Yo' say as th' book maks it seem real as tV pictur," 
 she said. 
 
 " It seems so to me," Anice answered. 
 
 " Will yo' lend me th' book? " she asked abruptly. 
 
 Anice's own Bible lay upon a side-table. She took it 
 up and handed it to the girl, saying simply, 
 
 " I will give you this one if you will take it. It waf 
 mine." 
 
 And Joan carried the book away with her. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE OPEN "DAVY." 
 
 MEBTER DERIK 
 
 Th' rools is ben broak agen on th' quiet bi them as bioak em afore 1 
 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 Respekfnlly 
 
 A honest man wi a famly tu f ed 
 
 THE engineer found this Jetter near his plate one morn- 
 ing on coming down to breakfast. His landlady ex- 
 plained that her daughter had picked it up inside 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 knew enough of human nature 
 such human nature as Lowrie represented to feel sure 
 that the calm could not continue. If for the present the 
 man did not defy him openly, he would disobey him in 
 eecret, while biding his time for other means of retalia- 
 tion. 
 
 Derrick had been on the lookout for some effort at 
 revenge; but so far since the night Joan had met him 
 upon the road, Lowrie outwardly had been perfectly quiet 
 and submissive. 
 
 After reading the letter, Derrick made up his mind tc 
 prompt and decisive measures, and set about considering 
 
THE OPEN "DAVYS 105 
 
 what these measures should be. There was only one 
 certain means of redress and safety, Lowrie must be 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 Derrick had reports to make, and the mere mention 
 of the violation of the rules would be enough. 
 
 " Bah ! " he said aloud. " It is not pleasant ; but it 
 must be done." 
 
 The affair had several aspects, rendering it unpleasant , 
 but Derrick shut his eyes to them resolutely. It seemed, 
 too, that it was not destined that he should have reason to 
 remain undecided. That very day he was confronted 
 with positive proof that the writer of the anonymous 
 warning was an honest man, with an honest motive. 
 
 During the morning, necessity called him away from 
 his men to a side gallery, and entering this gallery, he 
 found himself behind a man who stood at one side close 
 to the wall, his Davy lamp open, his pipe applied to the 
 flame. It was Dan Lowrie, and his stealthy glance over 
 his shoulder revealing to him that he was discovered, he 
 turned with an oath. 
 
 " 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 the next gallery and see what they have to say 
 about the matter." 
 
 " Dom yore eyes ! does tha think as my toime '11 nivver 
 coom ? " 
 
 But he gave up the key. 
 
 " When it comes," he said, " 1 hope I shall be ready to 
 help myself. Now I've got only one thing to do. I gave 
 you fkir warning, and asked you to act the man toward 
 5* 
 
106 THAT LASS & LOWRIET8. 
 
 your fellows. You have played the scoundrel instead, 
 and I have done with you. I shall report you. That's 
 the end of it." 
 
 lie 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 have gotten away so easily 
 Among the men in the next gallery there were some whc 
 were no friends to Lowrie, and who would have given 
 him rough handling if they had caught him just at that 
 moment, and the fellow knew it. 
 
 Toward the end of the week, the owners came, and 
 Derrick made his report. The result was just what he 
 had known it would be. Explosions had been caused 
 before by transgressions of the rules, and explosions were 
 expensive and disastrous affairs. Lowrie received his dis- 
 charge, and his fellow-workmen a severe warning, to the 
 secret consternation of some among them. 
 
 That the engineer of the new mines was a zealous and 
 really amiable young man, if rather prone to innovations, 
 became evident to his employers. But his innovations 
 were not encouraged. So, notwithstanding his argu- 
 ments, the blast-furnaces held their own. and "for the 
 present," as the easy-natnred manager put it, other 
 matters, even more important, were set aside. 
 
 " There is much to be done, Derrick," he said ; "really 
 so much that requires time and money, that we must wait 
 a little. < Rome, etc.' " 
 
 " Ah, Rome ! " returned Derrick. " I am sometimes 
 of the opinion that Rome had better never been built at 
 <ill Yon will not discharge your imperfect apparatus for 
 the same reason that you will discharge a collier, which 
 is hardly fair to the collier. Your blast-furnaces expose 
 the miners to as great danger as Lowrie's pipe. The 
 
THE OPEN "DAVY" 107 
 
 presence of either may bring about an explosion \vhen 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, 
 somewhat dejectedly. 
 
 " All this is discouraging to a man," said Derrick,*and 
 then he added meditatively, " As to the rest, I wonder 
 what Joan Lowrie will think of it." 
 
 A faint sense of discomfort fell upon Anice not 
 exactly easy to understand. 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. 
 
 lie had nothing more to say about Joan Lowrie : 
 when he recovered himself, as he did almost immediately, 
 he went back to the discussion of his pet plans, and waa 
 very eloquent on the subject. 
 
 Going home one evening, Derrick found himself at a 
 turn of the road only a few paces behind Joan. He had 
 thought much of her of late, and wondered whether she 
 was able to take an utterly unselfish view of his action. 
 She had a basket upon her arm and looked tired. lie 
 strode up to her 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 sun- 
 Bet that flung its color upon her face as she turned to look 
 at him. 
 
 " Thank yo'," she answered. '* I'm used to carry in' 
 such-loike loads." 
 
 But he took her burden from her, and even if she had 
 wished to be left to herself she had no redress, and accord- 
 
108 THAT LASS V LO WRIST 8. 
 
 ingly submitted. Influences long at work upon her had 
 rendered her less defiant than she had been in the past. 
 There was an element of quiet in her expression, such as 
 Derrick 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. 
 
 " Eight, you thought it right \ " 
 
 " Why should na I ? To' couldna ha' done no other.'* 
 
 " Thank you for saying that," he returned. " 1 have 
 thought once or twice that you might have blamed me." 
 
 " I did na know," was her answer. " I did na know 
 as I had done owt to mak' 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 disad- 
 vantage. He so often made irritating mistakes in his 
 efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found that 
 he had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with hei 
 problems and her moods, was far less difficult to compre- 
 hend than Joan Lowrie. 
 
 Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's 
 eyes had curiosity and wonder in them when she met her 
 friend. 
 
 " Joan," she said, peering over the door-sill at Deriick'a 
 retreating figure, " is na that one o' th' mesters ? Is na it 
 the Lunnon engineer, Joan ? " 
 
 " Yes," Joan answered briefly. 
 
 The pretty, silly creature's ejes grew larger, with a 
 shade of awe. 
 
THE OPEN "DAVY" 109 
 
 " Is na it th' one as yore f evther's so bitter agen ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " An' is na he a gentleman ? He dunnot look loike a 
 workin' raon. His cloas dunnot 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 be one, I suppose." 
 
 Liz looked after him again. 
 
 " Aye," she sighed, " he's a gentleman sure enow. I've 
 
 seed gentlemen enow to know th' look on 'em. Did " 
 
 hesitating fearfully, but letting her curiosity get the bet- 
 ter of her discretion nevertheless, " did he court thee, 
 Joan ? " 
 
 The next moment she was frightened into wishing she 
 had not asked the question. 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's him a gentleman." 
 
XV. 
 
 A DISCOVERT. 
 
 THE first time that Joan appeared at the night school, 
 the men and girls looked up from their tasks to stare at 
 her, and whisper among themselves ; but she was, to all 
 appearances, oblivious of their scrutiny, and the flurry of 
 cuiiosity and excitement soon died out. After the first 
 visit her place was never vacant. On the nights ap- 
 pointed for the classes to meet, she came, did the work 
 allotted to her, and went her way again, pretty much as 
 she did at the mines. When in due time Anice began to 
 work out her plan of co-operation with her, she was not 
 disappointed in the fulfillment of her hopes. Gradually 
 it became a natural thing for a slow and timid girl to 
 turn to Joan Lowrie for help. 
 
 As for Joan's own progress, it was not long before Miss 
 Barholm began to regard the girl with a new wonder. 
 She was absolutely amazed to find out how much she was 
 learning, and how much she had learned, working on 
 ailently aud by herself. She applied herself to her tasks 
 with a determination which seemed at times almost fe /er- 
 ish. 
 
 " I mun learn," she said to Anice once. " I witt" and 
 ahe closed her hand with a sudden nervous strength. 
 
 Then again there were times when her courage seemed 
 to fail her, though she never slackened her efforts. 
 
A DISCOVERT. HI 
 
 "Dost tha think," she said, " dost tha think as I could 
 iwer learn as much as tha knows thysen ? Does tha 
 think a workin' lass ivver did learn as 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 close observer might have missed altogether, 
 or at least only arrived at much later in the day of ex- 
 perience. Anice's thoughts were moved in this direction 
 the night that Derrick slipped into that half soliloquy 
 about Joan. She might well be startled. This man 
 and woman could scarcely have been placed at a greater 
 distance from each other, and yet those half dozen 
 words of Fergus Derrick's had suggested to his hearer 
 that each, through some undefined attraction, was veer- 
 ing toward the other. Neither might be aware of this; 
 but it was surely true. Little as social creeds influenced 
 Anice, she could not close her eyes to the incongruous 
 the unpleasant features of this strange situation. And, 
 besides, there was a more intimate and personal con- 
 sideration. Her own feeling toward Fergus Derrick was 
 friendship at first, and then she had suddenly awakened 
 and found it something more. That had startled her, too, 
 but it had not alarmed her till her eyes were opened by 
 that accidental speech of Derrick's. After that, she saw 
 what both Derrick and Joan were themselves blind to. 
 
 Setting her own pain aside, she stood apart, and pitied 
 both. As for herself, she was glad that she had made the 
 discovery before it was too late. She knew that there 
 might have been a time when it would have been too late. 
 As it was, she drew back, with a pang, to be sure ; but 
 atill she could draw back, 
 
 *' I have made a mistake," she said to herself in secret j 
 
112 THAT LASS (? LOWRIE>B. 
 
 but it did not occur to her to visit the consequen3es of the 
 mistake upon any other than herself. 
 
 The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowiie 
 only seemed to increase in strength. Meeting oftener, 
 they were knit more closely, and drawn into deeper faith 
 and friendship. With Joan, emotion was invariably an 
 undercurrent. She had trained herself to a stubborn stoi- 
 cism so long, and with such determination, that the habit 
 of complete self-control had become a second nature, 
 and led her to hold the world aloof. It \\as with 
 something of secret wonder that she awoke to the con- 
 sciousness of the fact that she was not holding Anice Bar- 
 holm aloof, and that there was no necessity for doing so. 
 She even found that she was being attracted toward her, 
 and was submitting to her influence as to a spell. She 
 did not understand at first, and wondered if it would last ; 
 but the nearer she was drawn to the girl, the less doubting 
 and reluctant she became. There was no occasion for 
 doubt, and her proud suspiciousness melted like a cloud 
 in the spring sunshine. Having armed herself against 
 patronage and curiosity, she encountered earnest friend 
 ship and good faith. She was not patronized, she was 
 not asked questions, she was left to reveal as much of 
 herself as she chose, and allowed 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 few min 
 utes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spend 
 ing hours there. In this little room the books, and 
 pictures, and other refinements appealed to senses un- 
 moved before. She drew in some fresh experience with 
 almost every breath. 
 
 One evening, after a specially discouraging day, it 
 occurred to Grace that he would go and see Joan ; and 
 
A DISCOVERT. 113 
 
 dropping in upon her on his way back to town, aftei 
 a visit to a parishioner who lived upon the high-road, he 
 found the girl sitting alone sitting as she often did, with 
 the child asleep upon her knee ; but this time with a book 
 lying close to its hand and 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 con- 
 na 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 a few moments she was silent, and 
 then she looked up at him. 
 
 " I ha' been readin' th' Bible," she said, as if in des- 
 peration. " I dunnot know why, unless happen some un 
 stronger nor me set me at it. Happen it coom out o' set- 
 tin here wi' th' choild. An' well, queer enow, I coom 
 reet on summat about childer, that little un as he tuk 
 and set 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 nivver thowt on it afore, but 
 Bomehow I should na loike to think it wur na. Nay, I 
 should na ! " Then, after a moment's pause " I nivver 
 troubled mysen 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 gaid it 
 liissen Ah ! mester," and the words breaking from her 
 were an actual cry, " Aye, mester, look at th' little un 
 here! I munnot go wrong I munnot, if he said it 
 hissen ! " 
 
 He felt his heart beat quick, and his pulses throb. Here 
 was the birth of a soul ; here in his hands perhaps lay the 
 rescue of two immortal beings. God help him! he cried 
 
THAT LASS O> LOWRIE'S. 
 
 inwardly. God help him to deal rightly with this woman, 
 lie found wcrds to utter, and uttered them with courage 
 and with faith. What words it matters not, but he did 
 not fail. Joan listened wondering, and in a passion of 
 fear and belief. 
 
 She clasped her arms about the child almost as if seek- 
 ing 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 liissen as 
 she mun coom ? If it's true as he said that, I'll believe aw 
 th' rest an' listen to yo'. ' Forbid them not '. Nay, but 
 J wunnot I could na' ha' th' heart." 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " OWD SAMMY " IN TROUBLE. 
 
 " CRADDOCK is in serious trouble," said Mr. BarholiE tc 
 his wife and daughter. 
 
 " ' Owd Sammy ' in trouble," said Anice. " How is 
 that, papa ? " 
 
 The Reverend Harold looked at once concerned and 
 annoyed. In truth he had cause for irritation. The lau- 
 rels he had intended to win through Sammy Craddock 
 were farther from being won to-day than they had ever 
 been. He was beginning to feel a dim, scarcely developed, 
 but sore conviction, that they were not laurels for his par- 
 ticular wearing. 
 
 "It is that bank failure at Illsbery," he answered. 
 " You have heard of it, I dare say. There has been a 
 complete crash, and Craddock's small savings being de- 
 posited there, he has lost everything he depended upon to 
 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 apparent than before. " I went as soon as I 
 heard it, last night indeed ; but it was of no use. I had 
 better have stayed away. I don't seem to make much 
 progress with Craddock, somehow or other. He is sti'h a 
 cross-grained, contradictory old feliow, I hardly know 
 
HQ THAI LASS 0' LOWRIETh. 
 
 what to make of him. And to add to his difficulties, hie 
 wife is so prostrated by the blow tlu.t she is confined 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 to take it ill. and was even 
 more disrespectful in manner than usual." 
 
 It was indeed a heavy blow that had fallen upon " Owd 
 Sammy." For a man to lose his all at his time of life would 
 have been hard enough anywhere ; but it was trebly hard 
 to meet with such a trial in Riggan. To have money, how- 
 ever small the sum, " laid by i' th' bank," was in Riggan 
 to be illustrious. The man who had an income of ten shil- 
 lings a week was a member of society whose opinion bore 
 weight ; the man with twenty was regarded with private 
 awe and public respect. He was deferred to as a man of 
 property ; his presence was considered to confer something 
 like honor upon an assembly, or at least to make it re- 
 spectable. The Government was supposed to be not 
 entirely oblivious of his existence, and his remarks upon 
 the affairs of the nation, and the conduct of the Prime 
 Minister and Cabinet, were regarded as having something 
 more than local interest. Sammy Craddock had been the 
 man with twenty shillings income. He had worked hard in 
 his youth and had been too shrewd and far-sighted to spend 
 hard. His wife had helped him, and a lucky windfall 
 upon the decease of a parsimonious relative had done the 
 rest. The weekly deposit in the old stocking hidden 
 under the mattress had become a bank deposit, and by the 
 time he was incapacitated from active labor, a decent little 
 income was ready. When the Illsbery Bank stopped pay- 
 ment, not only his daily bread but his dearly valued im- 
 portance was swept away from him at one fell blow 
 Instead of being a mar of property, with a voice in the 
 
"OWD SAMMY" IN TROUBLE. H7 
 
 affairs of the nation, he was a beggar. He saw himself 
 set aside among the frequenters of the Crown, hia politi' 
 cal opinions ignored, his sarcasms shorn of their point. 
 Knowing h:j5 poverty and misfortune, the men who had 
 etood in awe of him would begin to suspect him of need- 
 ing 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. 'Tis na th' dog, it's the mange 
 as foakes want to get rid on." 
 
 " Providence ? " said he to the Rector, when that portly 
 consoler called on him. " It's Providence, is it ? Well, 
 aw I say is, that if that's th' ways o' Providence, tlr 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 misfor- 
 tune, were even more caustic and irreverent. He was an 
 irreverent old sinner at his best, and now Sammy was at 
 his worst. Seeing his crabbed, wrinkled old face drawn 
 into an expression signifying defiance at once of his ill 
 luck and worldly comment, his acquaintances shook their 
 heads discreetly. Their reverence for him as a man of 
 property could not easily die out. The next thing to being 
 a man of property, was to have possessed worldly gooda 
 which had been " 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 of parts and 
 of no inconsiderable spirit. 
 
 ' Yo're in a mort o' trouble, Sammy, I mak' no doubt," 
 remarked one oracle, puffing at his long clay. 
 
 " Trouble enow," returned Sammy, shortly, " if you ca' 
 it trouble to be on th' road to th' poor-house." 
 
 " Aye, indeed ! " with a sigh. " I should think so. But 
 
THAT LASS 0' LOWRIST13. 
 
 trouble's th' lot o' mon. Riches is deceitful an' beauty is 
 vain not as tha wur ivver much o' a beauty, Sammy ; 1 
 canna mean that." 
 
 "Dunnot hurt thysen explaining I nivver set up fur 
 one. I left that to thee. Thy mug wus allus thy fortune." 
 
 " Tha'rt fretted now, Sammy," he said. " Tha'rt fret- 
 ted, an' it maks thee sharp-tongued." 
 
 " Loike as not," answered Sammy. " Frettin' works 
 different wi' some foak to what it does wi' others. 1 
 nivver seed thee fretted, mysen. Does it ha' th' same 
 effect on thee ? If it happens to, I should think it would 
 na harm thee, or other foak either. A bit o' sharpness 
 is na so hard to stand wheer it's a variety." 
 
 " Sithee, Sammy," called out a boisterous young Idlow 
 from the other side of the room. " What did th' 3 arson 
 ha' to say to thee ? Thwaite wur tellin' me as he c irried 
 th' prayer-book to thee, as soon as he heerd th' news, 
 Did he read thee th' Christeniu' service, or th' BUJ ial, tc 
 gi' thee a bit o' comfort ? " 
 
 " Happen he gi' him both, and throwed in th' Lit any," 
 shouted another. "How wur it, Sammy? Let's he^r." 
 
 Sammy's face began to relax. A few of the knots and 
 wrinkles showed signs of dispersing. A slow twisting of 
 the features took place, which might 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' 
 parson." His occupation was not entirely gone, after all. 
 It was specially soothing to his vanity to feel that hia 
 greatest importance lay in his own powers, and not alto- 
 gether in more corruptible and uncertain attractions. He 
 condescended to help himself to a pipe-full of a friend's 
 tobacco. 
 
 " Let's hear," cried' a third member of the company. 
 
"OWD SAMMY 11 IN TROUBLE. 
 
 " Gi' us th' tale owt an' owt, owd lad. Tha'rt tli' one to 
 do it graidely." 
 
 Sammy applied a Incifer to the fragrant weed, and 
 sucked at his pipe deliberately. 
 
 "It's noan so much of a tale," he said, with an air of 
 disparagement and indifference. "Yo' chaps rnak' so 
 much out o' nowt. Th' parson's well enow i' his way, 
 but," in naive self-satisfaction, " I mun say he's a foo', 
 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 was no other interruption and 
 Sammy proceeded. 
 
 " Whatten yo' lads think as th' first thing he says to 
 me wur ? " puffing vigorously. " Why, he cooms in an' 
 sets hissen down, an' he swells hissen out loike a frog i' 
 trouble, an' ses he, ' My friend, I hope you cling to th' 
 rock o' ages.' An' ses I, ' No I dunnot nowt o' th' soart, 
 an' be dom'd to yo'.' It wur na hosj^ible," with a 
 momentary touch of deprecation, " An' I dunnot say as 
 it wur hospitible, but I wur na i' th' mood to be hospiti- 
 bie just at th' toime. It tuk him back too, but he gettin 
 round after a bit, an' he tacklet me agen, an' we had it 
 baek'ard and for'ard betwixt us for a good haaf hour. He 
 said it wur Providence, an' I said, happen it wur, an' 
 happen it wum't. 1 wur na so friendly and familiar wi' 
 th' Lord as he seemed to be, so I could na tell foak aw he 
 meant, and aw he did na mean. Sithee here, lads," mak- 
 ing a fist of his knotty old hand and laying it upon the 
 table, "that theer's what stirs me up wi' th' parson kind. 
 They're allus settin down to explain what th' Lord-amoigty'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 
 
120 THAT LASS O 1 LO WHIST & 
 
 him in endways or sideways i' their talk whether or not, 
 an' they wnnnot be content to leave him to work fur 
 hissen. Seems to me if 1 wur a disciple as they ca' it 
 I should be ashamed i' a manner to be allus apologizin' 
 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 gotten a 
 lot o' Bible words as he uses, an' he brings 'ein in by the 
 scruf t 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 'em an' 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 a mon as has done 
 a master^ 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 foine loike principle when I see it, an' this 
 matter o' religion is a foine enow thing if yo' could get 
 it straightfor'ard an plain wi'out so much trimmins. 
 
 But " feeling perhaps that this was a large admission, 
 
 " I am 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 par- 
 ticulars of the combat. 
 
 " Well, well," admitted Craddock with the self-satisfac- 
 tion of a man who feels that he has acquitted himself 
 creditably. " Happen I did. He wur fur haviu' me 
 thank th' A'moighty fur aw ut had happent me, but I 
 towd him as I did na quoite see th' road clear. I dunnot 
 thank a chap as gi'es me a crack at th' soide o' th' yed. 
 I may stand it if so be as I conna gi' him a crack back, 
 hut I dunnot know as I should thank him fur th' favor, 
 an' not bein' one o' th' regenerate, as he ca's 'em, I dunnot 
 feel loike siugin' hymns just yet; happen it's 'cause I'm 
 
"OWD SAMMT" IN TROUBLE. 121 
 
 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 tc 
 him, ' Not bein' regenerate, I dunnot believe i' so much 
 grace afore meat. I say, lets ha' th' meat first, an' th' 
 grace arterward.' " 
 
 These remarks upon matters theological were applauded 
 enthusiastically by Craddock's audience. " Owd Sammy," 
 had finished his say, however, and believing that having 
 temporarily exhausted his views upon any subject, it was 
 well to let the field lie fallow, he did not begin again. He 
 turned his attention from his audience to his pipe, and 
 the intimate friends who sat near him. 
 
 " What art tha goin' to do, owd lad ?" asked one. 
 
 " Try fur a seat i' Parlyment," was the answer, " or 
 pack my bits o' duds i' a wheelbarrow, an' set th' owd lass 
 on 'em an' tak' th' nighest road to th' Union. I mun do 
 Bummat 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 a sup o' th' reet soart." 
 
 " 1 shaima 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 mon's head, I'll warrant. Aye ! 
 I wonder how th' owd lass'll do wi'out her drop o' tea, 
 an' how she'll stand bein' buried by th' parish ? That'll 
 be worse 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 set i' 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 be able to stand th' thowt o' bein' put undei 
 
122 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIST8. 
 
 i' a common 8tyle. I wish we'd kept a bit o' brass i' th 
 owd stockin." 
 
 " It's a bad enow lookout," granted another, " bnt I 
 would na gi' up aw at onct, Sammy. Happen tha could 
 find a bit o' leet work, as ud keep thee owt o' th' Union. 
 If tha could get a word or two spoke to Mester Hoviland, 
 now. He's jest lost his lodge-keeper an' he is na close 
 about payin' 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' mebbe sure ; but yo' know theer's so 
 mony lookin' out for a job o' that koind, an' I ha' na 
 moiiy friends among th' quality. I niwer wur smooth- 
 tongued enow." 
 
 True enough that. Among the country gentry, Sammy 
 Craddock was regarded as a disrespectful, if not a danger- 
 ous, old fellow. A man who made satirical observations 
 upon the ways and manners of his social superiors, could 
 not be much better than a heretic. And since his associ- 
 ates made an oracle of him, he was all the more danger- 
 ous. He revered neither Lords nor Commons, and was 
 not to be awed by the most imposing institutions. He did 
 not take his hat off when the gentry rode by, and it was 
 well known that he had jeered at several of the most 
 important individuals in county office. Consequently, 
 discreet persons who did not believe in the inorals of 
 " the masses " shook their heads at him, figuratively speak- 
 ing, and predicted that the end of his career would bti 
 unfortunate. So it was r,ot very likely that he would 
 receive much patronage in the hour of his downfall. 
 
 Sammy Craddock was in an uncomfortable frame oi 
 mind when he left his companions and turned homeward. 
 It was a bad -ookout for himself, and a bad one for " th' 
 
"OWV SAMMY" IN TROUBLE. 123 
 
 owd lass." His sympathy for the good woman was not of 
 a sentimental order, but it was sympathy nevertheless. He 
 had been a good husband, if not an effusive one. " Th' owd 
 lass " had known her only rival in The Crown and his boon 
 companions ; and upon the whole, neither had interfered 
 with her comfort, though it was her habit and her pleas- 
 ure to be loud in her condemnation and disparagement of 
 both. She would not have felt her connubial life com- 
 plete without a grievance, and Sammy's tendency to talk 
 politics over his pipe and beer was her standard resource. 
 
 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 by the window in the 
 sun, a bunch of bright flowers before her. 
 
 " Well now ! " he exclaimed. " Tha nivver says ! What's 
 takken thee ? I thowt tha wur bedrid fur th' rest o' thy 
 days." 
 
 " Howd thy tongue," she answered with a proper touch 
 of wifely irritation at his levity. " I've had a bit o' com- 
 pany 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's getten th' ways o' a woman, stead o' a lass, 
 she's that theer quoiet an' steady, an' she's getten a face 
 a? pretty as her ways, too." 
 
 Sammy scratched his head and reflected. 
 
 " I inak' no doubt on it," he answered. " I mak' no 
 doubt on it. It wur her, tha knows, as settlet th' foight 
 betwixt th' lads an' th' dog. I'm wonderin' why she has 
 na been here afore." 
 
 " Well now ! " taking up a stitch in her knitting, 
 " that's th' queer part o' it. Whatten yo' think th' little 
 
124: THAT LASS 0' LOWRTE'S. 
 
 thing said, when I axt her why ? She says, ' It did na 
 seem loike I was needed exactly, an' I did na know aa 
 yo'd care to ha' a stranger coora wi'out bein' axt.' Just as 
 if she had been nowt but a neebor's lass, and would na tak 
 th' liberty." 
 
 " That's noan th' owd parson's way," said Sammy. 
 
 u Th' owd parson!" testily; "I ha' no patience wi' 
 him. Th' little lass is as different frc ' him as chalk is fro' 
 cheese." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. 
 
 THE morning following, Anice's father being called 
 away by business left Biggan for a f^w days' absence, 
 and it was not until after he had gone, that the story of 
 Mr. Havilaud's lodge-keeper came to her ears. Mr. 
 Haviland was a Member of Parliament, a rich man with a 
 large estate, and his lodge-keeper had just left him to join 
 a fortunate son in America. Miss Barholm heard this 
 from one of her village f 7 /ends when she was out with the. 
 phaeton and the gray pony, and she at once thought of Sam- 
 my Craddock. The place was the very thing for him. The 
 duties were light, the lodge was a pretty and comfortable 
 cottage, and Mr. Haviland was known to be a generous 
 master. If Sammy could gain the situation, he was pro- 
 vided for. But of course there were other applicants, 
 and who was to speak for him? She touched up the 
 gray pony with her whip, and drove away from the 
 woman who had told her the news, in a perplexed frame 
 of mind. She herself knew Mr. Haviland only by sight, 
 his estate was three miles from the village, her father was 
 away, and there was really no time to be lost. She drove 
 to the corner of the road and paused there for a moment. 
 
 " Oh indeed, I must go myself," she said at last. " It ia 
 unconventional, but there is no other way." And she 
 bent over arid touched the pony again and turned the cor 
 tier without any further delay. 
 
THAT LASS 0' LO WRI&S. 
 
 She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and 
 at the end of the third, at the very gates of the Haviland 
 Park, in fact, fortune came to her rescue. A good- 
 humored middle-aged gentleman on a brown horse came 
 cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates, 
 approached her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courte- 
 ously ; seeing him, she stopped her pony, for she recog- 
 nized Mr. Haviland. 
 
 She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise 
 to her face. 
 
 It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by con 
 science to stop a gentleman 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 a great deal of Miss Barholm from his 
 acquaintance among the county families. He had heard 
 her spoken of as a rather singular young lady who had the 
 appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine recon- 
 structor of 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 fortunate enough to meet you here. Papa is away 
 from home, and I could not wait for his return, because I 
 was afraid I should be too late. I wanted to speak to you 
 about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland." 
 
 He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholrc 
 must be a terrible young woman, with a tendency to model 
 cottages and night schools. 
 
 Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are 
 
THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. 127 
 
 not apt to be attractive to the average EngLsh mind 
 There are conventional charities in which they may 
 indulge, there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic old 
 women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and 
 such things to which people are used and which are likely 
 to alarm nobody. Among a class of discreet persons these 
 are held to afford sufficient charitable exercise for any 
 well regulated young woman ; and girls whose plans 
 branch out in other directions are looked upon with some 
 coldness. So the country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm 
 and her novel fancies, her teaching in a night school 
 with a young curate, her friendship for the daughter 
 of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with 
 ragged boys and fighting terriers, her interest in the 
 unhappy mothers of nameless babies, hearing of these 
 things, I say, the excellent nonenthusiasts shook their heads 
 as the very mildest possible expression of dissent. They 
 suspected strong-mindedness and "reform" perhaps even 
 politics and a tendency to advance irregular notions con- 
 cerning the ballot. " At any rate," said they, " it does 
 not look well, and it is very much better for young per- 
 sons to leave these matters alone and do as others do who 
 are guided wholly by their elders." 
 
 It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see 
 sitting in her modest phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up 
 at him with a pair of the largest and clearest eyes he 
 had ever seen, while she told him about Sammy Craddock. 
 
 " I want the place very much for him, you see," she 
 ended. " But of course I do not wish to be unfair to any 
 one who may want it, and deserve it more. If there is any 
 one who really is in greater need of it, I suppose I must 
 give it up." 
 
 " But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody,'' answered 
 
128 THAT LASS O> LO WRIST 3. 
 
 Mr. Haviland quite eagerly. " I can assure you, Miss Bar 
 Iiolm, that the half dozen men who have applied to me are 
 without a solitary exception, unmitigated scamps great 
 strong burly fellows, who would, ten to one, spend their 
 days in the public house, and their nights in my preserves, 
 and leave their wives and ' children to attend to my gates 
 This Craddock is evidently the very man for me ; I am not 
 a model land-owner, but I like to combine charity with 
 subservience to my own interest occasionally. I have 
 heard of the old fellow. Something of a demagogue, 
 isn't he? But that will not frighten me. I will allow 
 him to get the better of me in political discussion, if he 
 will leave my pheasants alone." 
 
 " I will answer for the pheasants," said Anice, " if you 
 will let me send him 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 know how grateful 1 feel." 
 
 Before an hour had passed, Sammy Craddock heard the 
 good news. Anice drove back to his house and told him, 
 without delay. 
 
 " If you will go to-morrow morning, Mr. Haviland will 
 see you," she ended; "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 air 
 inanagt it i' haaf an hour ! " he said. " Well, I'm dom'd,- 
 ftxhi your pardin fur takkin th' liberty ; it's a habit I've 
 gotten but I be, an' no mistake." 
 
 He had not time to get over his grateful amazement 
 
THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. 129 
 
 arid recover his natural balance before she had said all she 
 had come to say, and was gone, 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 think o' her takkin th' matter i' hon J 
 th/ minnit she struck it ! Why ! hoo's getten as mich sense 
 as a mon. Eh ! but hoo's a rare un 1 said it when I seed 
 her amongst th' lads theer, an' I say it again. An' hoo is na 
 mich bigger nor six penn'orth o' copper neyther. An' I 
 warrant hoo nivver thowt o' fillin her pocket wi' tracks by 
 way o' comfort. Well, tha'st noan ha' to dee i' th' Union 
 after aw, owd lass, an' happen we con save a bit to gi' thee 
 a graidely funeral if tha'lt mak' up thy moind to stay to 
 th' top a bit loi ger." 
 
 * 
 
CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 A CONFESSION OF FAITH. 
 
 TIIE Sunday following the curate's visit to Lowrie'a cot 
 tage, just before the opening of the morning service at 
 St. Michael's, Joan Lowrie entered, and walking up the 
 side aisle, took her place among the free seats. The 
 church members turned to look at her as she passed 
 their pews. On her part, she seemed to see nobody and 
 to hear nothing of the rustlings of the genteel garments 
 stirred by the momentary excitement caused by her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 The curate, taking his stand in the pulpit that morning, 
 saw after the first moment only two faces among his con- 
 gregation. One, from among the old men and women in 
 the free seats, looked up at him with questioning in its 
 deep eyes, as if its owner had brought to him a solemn 
 problem to be solved this very hour, or forever left at 
 rest; the other, turned toward him from the Barholm 
 pew, alight with appeal and trust. He stood in sore need 
 of the aid for which he asked in his silent opening prayer. 
 
 Some of his flock who were somewhat prone to under- 
 rate the young parson's talents, were moved to a novel com- 
 prehension of them this morning. The more appreciative 
 went home saying among themselves that the young man 
 had power after all, and for once at least he had preached 
 with uncommon fire and pathos. His text was a brief 
 
A CONFESSION OF FAITH. 13J 
 
 one, but three words, the three words Joaii had read 
 beneath the picture of the dead Christ : " It is finished ! " 
 
 If it was chance that led him to them to-day, it was a 
 strange and fortunate chance, and surely he had never 
 preached as he preached then. 
 
 After the service, Anice looked for Joan in vain ; she 
 had gone before the rest of the congregation. 
 
 But in the evening, being out in the garden near the 
 holly hedge, she heard her name spoken, and glancing 
 over the leafy barrier, saw Joan standing on the side path, 
 just as she had seen her the first time they had spoken to 
 each other. 
 
 " I ha' na a minnit to stay,' 1 she said without any pre- 
 lude, " but I ha' summat to say to yo'." 
 
 Her manner was quiet, and her face wore a softened 
 pallor. Even her physical power for a time appeared 
 eubdued. And yet she looked steady and 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 book yo' gi' me, an' theer's things in it as I 
 nivver heerd on. Mester Grace too, he coom to see me 
 an' I axt him questions. Theer wur things as I wanted 
 to know, an' now it seems loike it looks clearer. What 
 wi' th' pictur', it begun wi' th' pictur', an' th' book, 
 an ? what he said to-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 getten th' words. But I thowt as yo'd loike 
 to know. I believe i' th' Book ; I believe i' th' Cross ; I 
 believe i' Him as deed en it ! That's what I coom to say. 3 ' 
 
132 THAT LASS O 1 LOWMI&S. 
 
 The woman turned without another word and went 
 away. 
 
 Anice did not remain in the garden. The spirit of 
 Joan Lowrie's intense mood communicated itself to her. 
 She, too, trembled and her pulse beat rapidly. She 
 thought of Paul Grace and wished for his presence. She 
 felt herself drawn near to him again. She wanted to 
 tell him that his harvest had come, that his faithfulness 
 had not been without its reward. Her own labor 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 before a window, his hands clasped behind his 
 head. His friendly intercourse with the family had 
 extended beyond the ceremonious epoch, when a man's 
 attitudes are studied and unnatural. In these days Der- 
 rick was as much at ease at the Rectory as an only son 
 might have been. 
 
 "I thought some one spoke to you across the hedge, 
 Anice ? " her mother said. 
 
 " Yes," Anice answered. " It was Joan Lowrie." 
 
 She sat down opposite Fergus, and told him what had 
 occurred. Her voice was 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 Low- 
 rie?" 
 
 Derrick roused himself with a start to meet her eyes 
 and find them almost sad. 
 
 " What now \ " he said. " God knows 1 For one, I can 
 not see the end." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 KLBBONS. 
 
 THE light in the cottage upon the Knoll Bcud burned 
 late in these days, and when Derrick was delayed in the 
 little town, he used to see it twinkle 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 
 he began to watch for it. He used to wonder what Joan 
 was doing, and he glanced in through the curtainless win- 
 dows as he passed by. Then he discovered that when the 
 light shone she was at work. Sometimes she was sitting 
 at the wooden table with a book, sometimes she waa 
 laboring at some 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 not long before Anice found that she was 
 intent upon acquiring the womanly arts her life had put 
 it out of her power to learn. 
 
 " I'd loike to learn to sew a bit," she had said, and tho 
 confession seemed awkward and reluctant. " I want to 
 learn to do a bit o' woman's work. I'm tired o' bein' 
 neyther th' one thing nor th' other. Seems loike 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 to it in a low, and evident 
 
134 THAT LASS O 1 LO WRISTS. 
 
 ly rarely used voice. Up to the time that Jean fust sang 
 to the child, she had never sung in her life. She caught 
 herself one day half chanting a lullaby she had heard 
 Anice sing. The sound of her own voice was so novel 
 to her, that she paused all at once in 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 do it. It wur a queer thing." 
 
 Sometimes Derrick met Joan entering the Rectory (at 
 which both were frequent visitors) ; sometimes, passing 
 through the hall on her way home ; but however often he 
 met her, he never felt that he advanced at all in her 
 friendship. 
 
 On one occasion, having bidden Anice good-night and 
 gone out on the staircase, Joan stepped hurriedly back 
 into the room and stood at the door as if waiting. 
 
 " What is it ? " Anice asked. 
 
 Joan started. She had looked flushed and downcast, 
 and when Anice addressed 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 done with her. And then " her lips tremulous, 
 " it will be a work for me to do." 
 
 Derrick's friendship and affection for herself held no 
 germ of warmer Jeeling. If she had had the slightest doubt 
 of this, she would have relinquished nothing. She had 
 no exaggerated notions of self-immolation. She would 
 not have given up to another woman what Heaven 
 had given to herself, any mere than she would have striven 
 
RIBBONS. 135 
 
 to win from another woman what had been Heaven's gift 
 to her. If she felt pain, it was riot the pain of a small envy, 
 bnt of a great tenderness. She was capable of making 
 any effort for the ultimate good of the man she could have 
 loved with the whole strength of her nature. 
 
 When she entered her room that night, Joan Lowrie 
 was moved to some surprise by a scene which met her eyes. 
 It was a simple thing and under some circumstance? 
 would have meant little ; but taken in connection with her 
 remembrance of past events, it had a peculiar significance. 
 Liz was sitting upon the hearth, with some odds and end? 
 of bright-colored ribbon on her knee, and a little straw hat 
 in her hand. She was trimming the hat, and using the 
 scraps of ribbon for the purpose. When she heard Joan, 
 she looked up and reddened somewhat, and then hung her 
 head over her work again. 
 
 " I'm makin' up my hat agen," she said, almost depre- 
 catingly. " It wur sich a faded thing." 
 
 " Are yo' ? " said Joan. 
 
 She came and stood leaning against the fire-place, and 
 looked down at Liz thoughtfully. The shallowness and 
 simplicity of the girl baffled her continually. She herself, 
 who was prompted in. action by deep motive and strong 
 feeling, found it hard to realize that there could be a sur- 
 face with no depth below. 
 
 Her momentary embarrassment having died out, Liz had 
 quite forgotten herself in the interest of her task. She 
 was full of self-satisfaction and trivial pleasure. She 
 looked really happy as she tried the effect of one 
 bit of color after another, holding the hat up. Joan had 
 never known her to show such interest in anything before. 
 One would never have fancied, seeing the girl at this mo- 
 ment, that a blight lay upon her life, that she could only 
 
136 THAT LASS 0' LOWRlHS. 
 
 look back with shrinking and forward without hope 
 She was neither looking backward nor forward now, all 
 her simple energies were concentrated in her work. How 
 was it? Joan asked herself. Had she forgotten could 
 she forget the past and be ready for petty vanities and 
 follies? To Joan, Liz's history had been a tragedy a 
 tragedy which must be tragic to its end. There was some- 
 thing startlingly out of keeping in the present mood of 
 this pretty seventeen-year-old girl sitting eager and de- 
 lighted over her lapf ul of ribbons ? Not that Joan be- 
 grudged her the slight happiness she only wondered, 
 and asked herself 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 1 
 ha' no reet to care for sich things." and she dropped hat 
 and ribbon on her knee with an angry gesture. " Happen 
 I ha' na," she whimpered. " I ha' na getten no reet to no 
 soart o' pleasure, I dare say." 
 
 "Nay," said Joan rousing herself from her reverie. 
 fl Nay, yo' must na say that, 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 to go out a bit loike other foak. Theer'a 
 places i' Eiggan as I could go to wi'out bein' slurred at 
 theer's other wenches as has done worse nor me. Ben 
 Maxy towd Mary on'y yesterday as I was the prettiest lasa 
 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 show* 
 
RIBBONS. 137 
 
 as I need na be so inich ashamed o' mysen after aw, an' 
 need na stay i'doors as if I dare na show my face." 
 
 Joan made no answer. 
 
 "An' yet," she said, smiling faintly at her own train of 
 thought afterward, " I dunnot see what I'm complainin' 
 on. Am I out o' patience because her pain is na deeper \ 
 Surely I am na wantin' her to mak' th' most o' her bur- 
 den. I mun be a queer wench, tryin' to mak' her happy, 
 an' then feelin' worrited at her forgettin' her trouble. It's 
 well as she con let things slip so easy." 
 
 But there came times when she could not help being 
 anxious, seeing Liz gradually drifting out into her old 
 world again. She was so weak, and pretty, and frivolous, 
 so ready to listen to rough flatteries. Riggan was more 
 rigid in its criticism than in its morality, and criticism hav- 
 ing died out, offense was forgotten through indifference 
 rather than through charity. Those who had been hardest 
 upon Liz in her day of darkness were carelessly ready 
 to take her up again when her fault was an old story over- 
 shadowed by some newer scandal. 
 
 Joan found herself left alone with the child oftener 
 than she used to be, but in truth this was a relief rather 
 than otherwise. She was accustomed to solitude, and the 
 work of self -culture she had begun filled 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 lost his place, he came into 
 the house, and making up a small bundle of his personal 
 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'm gone to look fur a job. My day has na 
 coom yet, but it's on th' way." 
 
138 THAT LASS 0' LOWBIE'S. 
 
 Since then he had only returned once or twice, and his 
 visits had always been brief and unexpected, and at night, 
 The first time he had startled Joan by dropping in upon 
 her at midnight, his small bundle on his knob-stick over 
 his shoulder, his clothes bespattered with road-side mud. 
 He said nothing of his motive in coming merely asked 
 for his supper and ate it without much remark. 
 
 " 1 ha' na had luck," he said. "Luck's not i' my loine ; 
 I wur na born to it, loike some foak. Happen th' 
 tide'll tak' a turn after a bit." 
 
 " Yore f eyther wur axin me about th' engineer," Liz 
 said to Joan the next morning. " He wanted to know if 
 we seed him pass heer i' his road hoam. D'yo' think heV 
 
 i/ 
 
 getten a spite agen th' engineer yet, Joan? " 
 
 "I'm afeard," Joan answered. "Feyther's loike to 
 bear a grudge agen them as put him out, whether they're 
 reet or wrong. Liz " hesitating. 
 
 " What is it, Joan ? " 
 
 " Dunnot yo' say no more nor yp' con help when he 
 axes yo' about th' engineer. I'm worritin' mysen lest 
 feyther should get hissen into trouble. He's hasty, yo' 
 know." 
 
 In the evening she went out and left the child to its 
 mother. She had business 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 of waiting, and 
 went to bed worn out and a trifle fretted. 
 
 She did not know what hour it was when she awakened ; 
 voices and a light in 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 to look at 
 her. She was pale and seemed excited. She was even 
 trembling a little, and her voice was unsteady as she asked, 
 
RIBBONS. 139 
 
 " Has th' little un been quiet, Liz ? " 
 
 " Quiet enow," said Liz. " What a toime yo' ha' been, 
 ,,an ! It mun be near inidneet. I got so worn out wi' 
 waitin' fur' yo' that I could na sit up no longer. Wheei 
 ha' yo' been ? " 
 
 " I went to Riggan," said Joan. " Theer wur summal 
 as I wur obliged to see to, an' I wur kept beyond my 
 toime by summatashappent. But it is na quoite midneet ; 
 though it's late enow." 
 
 " Was na theer a lantern wi' yo' ? " asked Liz. " I 
 thowt I seed th' leet fro' a lantern." 
 
 " Yes," Joan answered, " theer wur a lantern. As I 
 wnr turnin' into th' road, I met Mester Derrick comin 1 
 try th' Rectory an' an he walked alongside o' me." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE NEW GATE-KEEPEK. 
 
 SAMMY CRADDOCK made his appearance at Mr. Haviland'a 
 promptly, and being shown into the library, which was 
 empty, took a seat and proceeded to regard the surround- 
 ings critically. 
 
 "Dunnot scald thy nose wi' thy own broth," Mrs. 
 Craddock had said to him warningly, when he left her. 
 " Keep a civil tongue i' thy head. Thy toime fur saucin' 
 thy betters is past an' gone. Tha'lt ha' to tak' both fat an' 
 lean together i' these days, or go wi'out mate." 
 
 Sammy remembered these sage remarks rather sorely, as 
 he sat awaiting the master of the household. His indepen- 
 dence had been very dear to him, and the idea that he 
 must relinquish it was a grievous thorn in the flesh. He 
 glanced round at the pictures and statuettes and shook his 
 head dubiously. 
 
 " A mon wi' so many crinkum-crankums as he seems to 
 ha' getten '11 be apt to be reyther set i' polytics. An' I'll 
 warrant this is na th' best parlor neyther. Aw th' wall 
 covered wi' books too, an' a ornymental step-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' summat outside Riggan. After aw, it does a mon 
 no hurt to travel. I should na wonder if I mought see 
 
THE NJSW GATE-KEEPER. 141 
 
 things as I civver heerd on if I getten as fur as th' Conty 
 nent. Theer's France now foak say as they dumiot speak 
 Lancashire i' France, an' conna so much as understand it. 
 Well, theer's ignorance aw o'er th' world." 
 
 The door opened at this juncture, and Mr. Haviland 
 entered fresh, florid and cordial. His temperament be- 
 ing an easy one, he rather dreaded collision with anybody, 
 and would especially have disliked an uncomfortable 
 interview with this old fellow. He would like to be able 
 to preserve his affability of demeanor for his own sake as 
 well as for Miss 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' Higgan. 
 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 of the two, you know, and I dare say 
 you are tired with your walk. You came about the lodge- 
 keeper's place ? " 
 
 " That little lass o' th owd parson's " began Sammy. 
 
 " Miss Anice Barholm," interposed Mr. Haviland. " Yes, 
 Bhe told me she would send you. I. never had the pleasure 
 of seeing her until she drove here yesterday to ask for the 
 place for you. She was afraid to lose time in 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 a rarer un than I thowt fur, even. Hoo'll 
 Btond at nowt, wont that little wench," and he gave vent 
 to his feelings >n a delighted chuckle. " I'd loike to ax 
 
142 THAT LASS V LO WRISTS. 
 
 yo'," he aided, "wheer's th' other lass, as ud ha' had th ; 
 pluck to do as rnich?" 
 
 " I don't think there is another woman in the country 
 who would have done it," said Mr. Haviland smiling, 
 " We shall agree in our opinion of Miss Barholm, I seCj 
 Craddock, if we quarrel about everything else." 
 
 Sammy took out his flowered bandanna and wiped hia 
 bald forehead. He was at once mollified and encouraged. 
 lie felt that he was being treated with a kind of respect 
 and consideration. Here was one of the gentry who 
 placed himself on a friendly footing with him. Perhaps 
 upon the whole he should not find it so difficult to recon- 
 cile himself to his change of position after all. And 
 being thus encouraged, a certain bold simplicity made 
 him address himself to Mr. Haviland not as a servant in 
 prospective to a prospective master, but as man to man. 
 
 " Th' fact is," he said, " as 1 am na mich o' a lass's ir.on 
 mysen, and I wunnot say as I ha' mich opinion o' woman 
 foak i' general they're flighty yo' see they're flighty ; 
 but I mun say as 1 wur tuk by that little 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 that Sammy 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 na o'er digestible to th' best 
 o' era. 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' a wench, does na it \ " 
 
 u You think so ? Well, that is a matter of opinion, yon 
 know. However concerning the lodge-keeper's place 
 You understand what your duties would be, I suppose I " 
 
THE NEW GATE-KEEPER. 343 
 
 " Tei-din' th' gates an' th' loike. Aye sir. Th' little 
 lass towd me aw about it. Hoo is na one as misses 
 owt." 
 
 " So I see," smiling again. " And you think you can 
 perform them?" 
 
 " I wur thin kin' so. It did na stroiKe me as a mou need 
 to be partic'lar muskylar to do th' reet thing by 'em. 1 
 think I could tackle 'em wi'out breakin' down." 
 
 After a brief discussion of the subject, it was agreed 
 that Mr. Craddock should be installed as keeper of tho 
 lodge the week following. 
 
 " As to politics," said Mr. Haviland, when his visitor 
 rose to depart, " I hear you are something of a politician, 
 Craddock." 
 
 " Sumrnat o' one, sir," answered Sammy, his evident 
 satisfaction touched with a doubtful gravity. " Sumniat 
 o' one. I ha' my opinions o' things i' gineral." 
 
 " So I have been told ; and they have made you rather 
 unpopular among our county people, perhaps ? " 
 
 " I am na mich o' a favorite," with satisfaction. 
 
 " No, the fact is that until Miss Barholm came to me 1 
 had rather a bad idea of you, Craddock." 
 
 This looked somewhat serious, Craddock regarding it 
 rather in the light of a challenge. 
 
 " I'd loike well enow to ha' yo' change it," he said, " but 
 my coat is na o' th' turnin' web. I mun ha' my say about 
 things gentry or no gentry." And his wrinkled eld vis- 
 age expressed so crabbed a determination that Mr. Ilavi- 
 laud laughed outright. 
 
 " Oh ! don't misunderstand me," he said, " stick to your 
 party, Craddock. We will try to agree, for Miss Barholm'a 
 sake. I will leave you to your opinion, and you will leave 
 me to mine even a Member of Parliament has a right to 
 
144 THAT LASS O> LO WRIE'S. 
 
 an opinion, you know, if he doesn't intrude it upon th* 
 public too much." 
 
 Craddock went home in a mollified frame of mind. He 
 felt that he had gained his point and held his ground, and 
 he respected himself accordingly. He felt too that hia 
 associates had additional right to respect him. It was their 
 ground too, ar.d he had held it for them as well as for him- 
 self. He stopped at The Crown for his midday glass of 
 ale ; and his self-satisfaction was so evident that his friends 
 observed it, and remarked among themselves that " th' 
 owd lad wur pickin' up his crumbs 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 thankf u' fur to a 
 inon as is down i' th' world. I've getten the lodge-keeper's 
 place at Mr. Haviland's." 
 
 "Tha' nivver says! Who'd a'thowtit? How iwer 
 did that coom about ? " 
 
 "Friends i' coort," with dignity. " Friends i' coort. 
 Hond me that jug o' ale, Tummy. Haviland's a mon o' 
 discretion, if he is a Member o' Parly men t. 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 said 
 an done. He'll do, upo? th' whole." 
 
 " Yo' stood up to him free enow, I warraft," said 
 Tummy. " Th' gentle folk dunnot often hear sich fret 
 epeakin' as yo' gi' 'em, Sammy." 
 
 " Well, 1 had to be a bit indypendent ; it wur nat'ral. 
 It would na ha' d^ne to ha' turnt soft, if he wurth' mester 
 an' rae th' mon. But he's a mon o' sense, as I say, an' hj 
 
THE NEW GATE-KEEPER. 145 
 
 wur civil enow, an' friendly enow. He's gotten 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 larnin i' their heads, it's true, but they're noan so 
 bad some on 'em if yo'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 mugs dance and rattle. 
 
 "Now tha'rt comin' to the meat i' th' egg," he sai(L 
 " Who should tha think 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 she wunnot run aw Riggan i' a twelvemonth. 1 
 dun not know wheer she getten her head-nllin' fro' uuleea 
 she robbed th' owd parson, an' left his nob standin' empty. 
 Happen that's what's up wi' th' ow i chap." 
 7 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DERRICK'S QUESTION. 
 
 DSBRICK had bad a great deal to thim: about of late. 
 Affairs at tbe mines bad been troublesome, as usual, and 
 he bad been often irritated by tbe stupidity of tbe men 
 who were in authority over him. He began to feel, more- 
 over, that an almost impalpable barrier had sprung up 
 between himself and his nearest friend. When he came 
 to face the matter, he was obliged to acknowledge to him- 
 self that there were things he had kept from Grace, 
 though it had been without any positive intention of con- 
 cealment. And, perhaps, being the sensitive fellow he 
 had called him, Grace had felt that there was something 
 behind his occasional abstraction and silence, and had 
 shrunk within himself, feeling a trifle hurt at Derrick's 
 want of frankness and confidence. 
 
 Hardly a day passed in which he did not spend some 
 short time in the society of his Pythias. He rarely passed 
 his lodgings without dropping in, and, to-night, he turned 
 in on his way from the office, and fell upon Grace hard at 
 work over a volume of theology. 
 
 " Lay your book aside," he said to him. " I want to gos 
 sip this evening, old fellow." 
 
 Grace closed his book and came to his usual seat, smil- 
 ing affectionately. There was a suggestion of feminine 
 affectionateness in bis bearing toward his friend. 
 
 " Gossip," he remarked. " The word gossip " 
 
DERRICK'S QUESTION. 147 
 
 " Oh," put in Derrick, " it's a woman's word ; but 1 am 
 in a womanish sort of humor. I am going to be I sup- 
 pose, one might say confidential." 
 
 The Reverend Paul reddened a little, but as Derrick 
 rather avoided looking at him ae did not observe the fact. 
 
 " Grace," he said, after a silence, "I have a sort of con- 
 fession to make. I am in a difficulty, and 1 rather blame 
 myself for not having come to you before." 
 
 " Don't blame yourself," said the curate, faintly. " You 
 you are not to blame." 
 
 Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded 
 so significant of some previous knowledge of his trouble, 
 that he was taken aback. He could 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 I ought almost to ask your pardon for 
 going so far." 
 
 Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's 
 trouble meant his friend's honor and regard for himself. 
 
 O 
 
 It was for his sake that Derrick was hesitating on the 
 brink of a happy love unselfishly fearing for him. He 
 knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw 
 how under the circumstances, it might involve him. Lov- 
 ing Anice Barholm with the full strength of a strong 
 nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrink from 
 his prospect of success with the woman his friend had 
 failed to win. 
 
 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 had acknowledged to himself, since ho 
 had in all unconsciousness, confessed so much. 
 
!48 THAT LASS V LOWRI&S. 
 
 " You have saved me the trouble of putting into words 
 a feeling I have not words to explain," he said. " Perhaps 
 that is the reason why I have not spoken openly before 
 Grace," abruptly, " I have fancied there was a cloud 
 between us." 
 
 " Between us ! " said Grace, eagerly and warmly. " No, 
 no I That was a poor fancy indeed ; I could not bear 
 that." 
 
 " Nor I," impetuously. But I cannot be explicit even 
 now, Grace even my 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 
 BO little 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 is something extraordinary in the blindness of a 
 man with an absorbing passion. Absorbed by his passion 
 for one woman, Grace was blind to the greatest of incon- 
 sistencies in his friend's speech and manner. Absorbed 
 in his passion for another woman, Derrick forgot for the 
 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, 1 cannot be unselfish in this you can. Tell 
 me what I am to do answer me this question, though 
 God knows, it would be a hard one for any man to answer. 
 Perhaps I ought not to ask it perhaps I ought to have 
 decision enough to answer it myself without troubling 
 you. But how can I ? And you who are so true to your- 
 
DERRICK'S QUESTION-. 148 
 
 self and to me in other things, will be true in this I know 
 This feeling is stronger than all else so strong that I have 
 feared and failed to comprehend it. I had not even 
 thought of it until it came upon me with fearful force, 
 and 1 am conscious that it has not reached its height 
 yet. It is not an ignoble passion, I know. How could a 
 passion for such a creature be ignoble ? And yet again, 
 there have been times when I have felt that perhaps it 
 was best to struggle against it. I am beset on every side, 
 as I have said, and I appeal to you. 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 
 tremble to 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 no thought 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 Jiis gentle touch with a faint smile. 
 
 " I am too fiery and tempestuous, and you want to cool 
 me," he said. " You are as gentle as a woman, Grace." 
 
 The curate standing up before him, a slight, not at all 
 heroic figure in his 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 highest honor, such a love is the highest 
 and noblest thing in this world, and nothing should lead 
 to its sacrifice, no ambition, no hope, no friendship." 
 
CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 MASTER LANDSELL'S SON. 
 
 " I D JNNOT know what to mak' on her," Joan said t<3 
 Anice, speaking of Liz. " Sometimes she is i' sich sperrits 
 that she's fairly nighty, an' then agen, she's aw fretted 
 an' crossed with ivverything. Th' choild seems to worrit 
 her to death." 
 
 " That lass o' Eowrie's has made a bad bargain, i' takin' 
 up wi' that wench," said a townswoman to Grace. " She's 
 noan one o' th' soart as '11 keep straight. She's as shallow 
 as a brook i' midsummer. What's she doin' leavin' th' 
 young un to Joan, and gaddin' about wi' ribbons i' her 
 bonnet ? Some lasses would na ha' th' heart to show 
 theirsens." 
 
 The truth was that the poor weak child was struggling 
 feebly in deep water again. She had not thought of dan- 
 ger. She had only been tired of the monotony of her 
 existence, and had longed for a change. If she had seen 
 the end she would have shrunk from it before she had 
 taken her first step. She wanted no more trouble and 
 shame, she only wanted variety and excitement. 
 
 She was going down a by-lane leading to the Haxya' 
 cottage, and was hurrying through the twilight, when she 
 brushed against a man who was lounging carelessly along 
 the path, smoking a cigar, and evidently enjoying the 
 balmy coolness of the summer evening. It was just light 
 enough for her to see that this person was well-dressed, 
 
MASTER LANDSKLV8 SON. 151 
 
 and young, and with a certaii lazily graceful way of mov- 
 ing, and it was just light enough for the man to see that 
 the half-frightened face she lifted was pretty and youtnful, 
 But, having seen this much, he must surely have recognized 
 more, for he made a quick backward step. 
 
 " Liz ! " he said. " Why, Liz, my girl ! " 
 
 And Liz stood still. She stood still, because, for the 
 moment, she lost the power of motion. Her heart gave a 
 great wild leap, and, in a minute more, she was trembling 
 all over with a strange, dreadful emotion. It seemed as 
 if long, terrible months were blotted out, and she waa 
 looking into her cruel lover's face, as she had looked at it 
 last. It was the man who had brought her to her greatest 
 happiness aud her deepest pain and misery. She could 
 not speak at first ; but soon she broke into a passion of 
 tears. It evidently made the young man uncomfortable 
 perhaps it touched m'm a little. Ralph Landsell's nature 
 was not unlike Liz's own. He was invariably swayed by 
 the passing circumstance, only, perhaps he was a trifle 
 more easily moved by an evil impulse than a good one. 
 The beauty of the girl's tearful face, too, overbalanced his 
 first feeling of irritation at seeing her and finding that he 
 was in a difficult position. Then he did not want her to 
 run away and perhaps betray him in her agitation, so he 
 put out his hand and laid it on her shoulder. 
 
 "Hush," he said. "Don't cry. What a poor little 
 goose you are. Somebody will hear you." 
 
 The girl made an effort to free herself from his detain 
 ing hand, but it was useless. Light as his grasp was, it 
 held her. 
 
 " Let me a-be," she cried, sobbing petulantly. " Yo 
 ha' no reet to howd me. Yo' wur ready erow to let me 
 go when when I wur i' trouble." 
 
 I 
 
152 THAT LASS 0' LOWSHfO, 
 
 " Trouble ! " he repeated af tei her. " Wasn't I in trou 
 ble, too ? You don't mean to say you did not know what a 
 mess I was in ? I'll own it looked rather shabby, Liz, but 
 I was obliged to bolt as I did. I hadn't time to stay and 
 explain. The governor was down on us, and there'd 
 have been an awful row. Don't be hard on a fellow, Lizzie 
 You're you're too nice a little 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' myson when I 
 could na do it, an' had na strength to howd up agen th' 
 world. I wur turned out o' house an' home, an' if it had 
 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 yore face agen. Leave me a-be. 
 It's ower now, an' I dunnot want to get into trouble agen." 
 
 He drew his hand away, biting his lip and frowning boy- 
 ishly. He had been as fond of Liz as such a man could 
 be. But she had been a trouble to him in the end, and he 
 had barely escaped, through his cowardly night, from 
 being openly disgraced and visited by his fathei's wrath. 
 
 " If you had not gone away in such a hurry, you would 
 have found that I did not mean to treat you so badly after 
 all," he said. " I wrote to you and sent you money, and 
 told you why I was obliged to leave you for the time, but 
 you were gone, and the letter was returned to me. I 
 was not so much to blame." 
 
 "Th' blame did na fa' on yo'," said Liz. "I tell yo' 1 
 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 lost all her old attractions for him. She waa 
 
MASTER LA.NJJ SELL'S SON. 153 
 
 prettier than ever, the shawl had slipped from ner curly 
 hair, the tears in her eyes made them look large and soft, 
 and gave her face an expression of most pathetic helpless- 
 ness, and he really felt that he would like to defend, if not 
 clear himself. So, when she made a movement as if tr 
 leave him, he was positively 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, waa 
 harder for the girl to withstand than a stronger will could 
 comprehend. It brought back so much to her, those 
 first bright days, her poor, brief little reign, her childish 
 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 was not bad, only emotional, 
 weak and wavering. The tone held her one moment and 
 then she burst into fresh tears. 
 
 " I wunnot listen to yo'," she cried. " I wunnot listen 
 to yo'. I wunnot I wunnot," and before he had time to 
 utter another word, she had turned and fled down the 
 lane back toward Joan's cottage, like some hunted creature 
 fleeing for life. 
 
 Joan, sitting alone, rose in alarm, when she burst open 
 the door and rushed in. She was quivering from head 
 to foot, panting for breath, and the 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 of Joan's dress. 
 
 " I ha' I ha' seed a ghost, or summat," she panted 
 and whimpered. " I I :et summat as feart me." 
 7* 
 
154 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 " Let me go and look what it war," said Joan. " Wa* 
 it i' tli' lane? Tha art tremblin' aw o'er, Lizzie." 
 
 But Liz only clung to her more closely. 
 
 N a y nay," she protested. " Tha shall na go. I'm 
 feart to be left an' an' I dunnot want yo' to go. Dun- 
 net go, Joan, dunnot." 
 
 And Joan was fain to remain. 
 
 She did not go out into the village for several days 
 after this, Joan observed. She stayed at home and did not 
 even leave the cottage. She was not like herself, either. 
 Up to that time she had seemed to be forgetting her trouble, 
 and gradually slipping back into the enjoyments she had 
 known before she had gone away. Now a cloud seemed 
 to be upon her. She was restless and nervous, or listless 
 and unhappy. She was easily startled, and now and then 
 Joan fancied that she was expecting something unusual 
 to happen. She lost color and appetite, and the child's 
 presence troubled her more than usual. Once, when it set 
 up a sudden 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 a simple 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 girl again. And this change in her it was 
 that made Joan open her heart to Anice. She saw that 
 something was wrong, and noted a new influence at work, 
 even after the girl began to go out again and resume hei 
 visits to hsr acquaintances. Then, alternating with fret 
 
MASTER LANDSELDS SON. 155 
 
 ful listlessness, were tremulous high spirits and feverish 
 fits of gayety. 
 
 There came a day v however, when Joan gained a clue to 
 the meaning of this change, though never from hc/r first 
 recognition of it until the end did she comprehend it 
 fully. Perhaps she was wholly unconscious of what nar- 
 rower natures experience. Then, too, she had little oppor- 
 tunity for hearing gossip. She had no visitors, and she 
 was kept much at home with the child, who was not 
 healthy, and who, during the summer months, was con- 
 stantly feeble and ailing. Grace, hearing nothing more 
 after the first hint of suspicion, was so far relieved that 
 he thought it best to spare Joan the pain of being stung 
 by it. 
 
 But there came a piece of news to Joan that troubled 
 her. 
 
 " There's a young sprig o' one o' th' managers stayin' a<. 
 th' * Queen's Arms,' " remarked a pit woman one morn 
 ing. " He's a f oine young chap, too dresses up loike & 
 tailor's dummy, an' looks as if he'd stepped reet 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 bo sure it's 
 him. My mester towd me hissen." 
 
 This was Liz's trouble, then. 
 
 At noon Joan went home full of self-reproach because 
 sometimes her patience 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 her 
 comfort. She went and sat down in a chair near by she 
 drew the curly head down upon her lap, and laid her 
 hand on it caressingly. 
 
156 THAT LASS 0' LO WHIST & 
 
 u Lizzie, lass," she said ; "yo' need na ha' been afeard tc 
 tell me." 
 
 There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then still- 
 ness. 
 
 " I heard about it to-day," Joan went on, " an' I did na 
 wonder as yo' wur full 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 wui 
 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 that such a cry of pain should be wrung 
 from the weak heart. Her hand lost its steadiness as she 
 touched the soft, tangled hair more tenderly than before. 
 
 " He wur th' ghost as yo' seed i' th' lane," she said. 
 "Wurnahe?" 
 
 " Aye," wept Liz, " he wur, an' 1 dare na tell yo'. It 
 seemit loike it tuk away my breath, an aw my heart owt o' 
 me. Niwer yo' blame me, Joan nivver yo' be hard on 
 me ivvery thing else is hard enow. I thowt I wur safe 
 wi' yo' I did fur sure." 
 
 " An' yo' are safe," Joan answered. " Dost tha' think 
 I would turn agen thee ? Nay, lass ; tha'rt as safe as th' 
 choild is, when I hold it i' my breast. I ha' a pain o' my 
 own, Liz, as'll nivver heal, an' I'd loike to know as I'd held 
 out my hond to them as theer is healin' fur. I'd thank God 
 fur th' chance poor lass poor lass poor lass!" And 
 he bent down and kissed her again and again. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "CANNYBLES." 
 
 THE night school gained ground steadily. The number 
 of scholars was constantly on the increase, so much so. 
 indeed, that Grace had his hands inconveniently full. 
 
 " They have dull natures, these people," said the Rev- 
 erend 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 not my fortune to find it 
 difficult to reach people, as a rule. They seem to have 
 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 himself on a level 
 with them, so to speak. I notice they listen to, and seem 
 to understand him. The fact is, I have an idea that that 
 sort of thing is Grace's forte. He is not a brilliant fellow, 
 and will never make any particular mark, but he has an 
 odd perseverance which carries him along with a certain 
 class. Riggan suits him, I think. He has dropped into 
 the right groove." 
 
 J'nd Bates and " th' best tarrier i' Riggan" were among 
 tho most faithful attendants. The lad's fancy for Anice 
 had extended to Grace. Grace's friendly toleration of 
 Nib had done much for him. Nib always appeared with 
 his master, and his manner was as composed and decoroui 
 as if rats were subjects foreign to his meditations. His 
 
158 THAT LASS G 1 LOWRIETS. 
 
 part it was to lie at Jud's feet, his nose betweeii his paws, 
 his eyes twinkling sagaciously behind his shaggy eyebrows, 
 while occasionally, as a token of approval, he wagged hii 
 tail. Once or twice, during a fitful slumber, he had been 
 known to give vent to his feelings in a sharp bark, but hr 
 never failed to awaken immediately, with every appear- 
 ance of the deepest abasement and confusion at the 
 unconscious transgression. 
 
 During a visit to the rectory one day, Jud's eyes fell upon 
 a book which lay on Anice's table. It was full of pictures 
 illustrations depicting the adventures and vicissitudes 
 of a fortunate unfortunate, whose desert island has been 
 the paradise of thousands; whose goat-skin habiliments 
 have been more worthy of envy than kingly purple ; whose 
 hairy cap has been more significant of monarchy than 
 any crown. For the man who wore these savage garments 
 has reigned supreme in realms of romance, known only 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, his hair was 
 pushed straight up on his head, both elbows were resting 
 on the table. He was spelling his way laboriously, but ex- 
 citedly, through the story of the foot-print on the sand. 
 Anice waited a moment, and then spoke : 
 
 "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 the lodge at the Haviland gates. The day 
 Ai ice gave Jud his well-earned reward, she had a package 
 
" OANNTBLE8." 159 
 
 to send t:> Mrs. Craddock, and when the boy came 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 much obliged," she said; " and please tell her that 
 I will drive out to see her to-morrow." 
 
 Jud accepted the mission readily. With Nib at his heels, 
 and " Robinson Crusoe " under his arm, three miles were 
 a trivial matter. He trudged off, whistling with keen 
 delight. As he went along he could fortify himself with 
 an occasional glance at the hero and his man Friday. 
 "What would he not have sacrificed at the prospect of 
 being cast with Nib upon a desert island ? 
 
 " Owd Sammy " sat near the chimney-corner smoking 
 his pipe, and making severe mental comments upon the 
 conduct of Parliament, then in session, of whose erratic 
 proceedings he was reading an account in a small but 
 highly seasoned newspaper. Sammy shook his head omi- 
 nously over the peppery reports, but feeling it as well to 
 reserve his opinions for a select audience at The Crown, 
 allowed Mrs. Craddock to perform her household 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 his parcel ; " Miss Anice sent me wi' it." 
 
 " Tak' it to th' owd lass, then," said Sammy. " Tak' it - 
 to her. Tha'lt find 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 bread and cheese, and Nib 
 followed him with expectant eyes. 
 
 " Sit thee down, lad," said Sammy, condescendingly 
 
160 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 f< Sit thee down, tha'st getten a walk both afore and behind 
 thee. What book 'st getten under thy arm ? " 
 
 Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exul- 
 tation. 
 
 "It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is," he answered. 
 
 Sammy shook his head dubiously. 
 
 "Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noaii 
 acripter, is he ? " 
 
 " No," said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly ; " he 
 IB na." 
 
 " Hond him over, an' lets 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 frontis- 
 piece, " that theer's him." 
 
 Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then 
 held the book at arm's length, regarding Robinson's goat- 
 skin habiliments over the rims of his spectacles. 
 
 " Well, I'm dom'd," he exclaimed. " I'm dom'd, if I 
 would na loike to see that chap i' Riggan ! What's th' 
 felly getten on ? " 
 
 " He's dressed i' goat-skins. He wtir cast upon a desert 
 island, an' had na' 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 
 itory ? " 
 
 w He wur shipwrecked," triumphantly. " Th' sea drift- 
 ed him to th' shore, an' he built hissen a hut, an' gettin' 
 goats an' birds, an' an' aw sorts an' it's the graideliest 
 bock tha ivver seed. Miss Anice gave it me." 
 
 " Has she read it hersen ? " 
 
" CANNYBLES." 
 
 " Aye, it wur her as tellt me most on it." 
 
 Sammy turned the volume over, and looked at the 
 back of it, at the edges of the leaves, at the gilt-lettered 
 title. 
 
 " I would na be surprised," he observed with oracular 
 amiability. " I would 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 in enthusiasm. " Theer's a mon ca'd Friday, 
 an' a lot o' felly s as eats each other cannybles they ca' 
 
 'em " 
 
 . "Look tha here," interposed Craddock, his curiosity and 
 interest getting, the better of him. " Sit thee down and 
 read a bit. That's something as I nivver heard on 
 caunybles an' th' loike. Pick thee th' place, an' let's hear 
 summat about th' cannybles if tha has na th' toime to do 
 no more." 
 
 Jud needed no second invitation. Sharing the general 
 opinion that " Owd Sammy " was a man of mark, he could 
 not help feeling that Crusoe was complimented by his 
 attention. He picked out his place, as his hearer had 
 advised him, and plunged into tho details of the cannibal 
 feast witli pride and determination. Though his elocution 
 may have been of a st) 7 le peculiar to beginners and his 
 pronunciation occasionally startling in its originality, still 
 Sammy gathered the gist of the story. He puffed at his 
 pipe so furiously that the foreign gentleman's turbaned 
 head was emptied with amazing rapidity, and it was nec- 
 essary to refill it two or three times ; he rubbed his cordu- 
 roy knees with both hands, occasionally he slapped one 
 of them in the intensity of his interest, and when Jud 
 stopped he could o'lly express himself in his usual em 
 phatic formula 
 
162 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 " "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 mon by th' name o' Robyson onct, but it 
 could na ha' been him, fur he wur na mich o' a chap. If 
 he'd a bin cast o' a desert island, he would na had th' 
 gumption to do aw that theer Jem Robyson could na. 
 It could na ha' been him an' besides, he could na ha' 
 writ it out, as that theer felly's done." 
 
 There was a pause, in which Craddock held his pipe in 
 his hand reflectively shaking his head once more. 
 
 " Cannybles an' th' loike too," he said. " Theer's a 
 soight o' things as a mon does na hear on. Why, I niv- 
 ver heard o' cannybles mysen, an' I am na considert igno- 
 rant by th' most o' foak." Then, as Jud rose to go, " Art 
 tha fur goin' ? " he asked. " Well, I mun say as I'd loike to 
 hear summat more about Robyson ; but, if tha rnuii 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'll gi'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 cort, an' we'll go on wi' the canny- 
 bles." 
 
 " What's th' lad been readin' to thee, Sammy? " asked 
 Mrs. Craddock entering the room, after Jud had taken hia 
 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 wur readin' Robyson Cruse e.' 
 
 "Not a tract, sure-ly?" 
 
" CANNYBLES." 163 
 
 " Nay, that it wur na ! It wur th' dairy o' a mon whc. 
 war cast upo' a desert island i' th' midst o' cannybles." 
 
 "The dairy?" 
 
 " Nay, lass, nay," testily, " not i' th' sense yo' meaa. 
 Th' dairy wur o' th' litterairy soart. He wur a litterairy 
 mon." 
 
 " Cannybles an' th' loike," Sammy said to himself several 
 times during the evening. "Cannybles an' th' loike. 
 Theer's a power o' things i' th' imi verse." 
 
 He took his pipe after supper and went out for a stroll. 
 Mental activity made him restless. The night was a bright 
 one. A yellow harvest moon was rising slowly above the 
 tree-tops, and casting a mellow light upon the road 
 stretching out before him. He passed through the gates 
 and down the road at a leisurely pace, and had walked a 
 hundred yards or so, when he caught sight of two figures 
 approaching him a girl and a man, so absorbed that they 
 evidently had not noticed him. The girl was of light and 
 youthful figure, and the little old red shawl she wore over 
 her head was pushed aside, and showed curly hair lying 
 upon her brow. It was plain that she was uneasy or fright- 
 ened, for, as soon as she was near enough, her voice reached 
 him in a tone of frightened protest. 
 
 " Oh, dunnot ! " she was saying, " I conna bear it. I 
 dunnot want to hear yo', an' an' I will na. Yo' moight 
 ha' let me be. I dunnot believe yo'. Let me go whoarn 
 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 mou i' gentleman's cloas. Dom sich loiko 
 chaps, say I. What would they think if workin' men ud 
 coom meddlin' wi' theer lasses. I wish I'd had more 
 toime to see th' wench's face." 
 
CHAPTER 
 
 DAN LOWKIE'S RETURN 
 
 Nor a pleasant road to travel at any time the high 
 read to Riggan, it was certainly at its worst to-night. 
 
 Between twelve and one o'clock, the rain which had 
 been pouring down steadily with true English pertinacity, 
 for two davs, was gradually passing into a drizzle still 
 more unpleasant, a drizzle that soaked into the already 
 soaked clay, that made the mud more slippery, that pene- 
 trated a man's clothing and beat softly but irritatingly 
 against his face, and dripped from his hair and hat down 
 upon his neck, however well he might imagine himself 
 protected by his outside wrappings. But, if he was a com- 
 mon traveller a rough tramp or laborer, who was not pro- 
 tected from it at all, it could not fail to annoy him still 
 more, and consequently to affect his temper. 
 
 At the hour I have named, such a traveller was making 
 his way through the mire and drizzle toward Riggan, a 
 tramp in mud-splashed corduroy and with the regulation 
 handkerchief bundle tied to the thick stick which he car- 
 ried over his shoulder. 
 
 " Dom th rain ; dona th road," he said. 
 
 It was not alone the state of the weather that put hiir 
 out of humor. 
 
 "Th' lass," he went on. "Dom her handsome face, 
 Goin' agin a chap workin' agin him, an' settin' herseii ' 
 his road. Blast me," grinding his teeth " Blast me if I 
 dnnnot ha' it out wi' her ! " 
 
DAN LOWRIE'S RETURN. 165 
 
 F> t cursing, and alternating his curses with raging si- 
 lence, he trudged on his way until four o'clock, when he 
 was in sight of the cottage upon the Knoll Road the cot- 
 tage where Joan and Liz lay asleep upon their poor bed, 
 with the child between them. 
 
 Joan had not been asleep long. The child had been 
 unusually fretful, and had kept her awake. So she was 
 the more easily awakened from her first light and uneasy 
 slumber by a knock on the door. Hearing it, she started 
 up and listened. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked in a voice too low to disturb 
 the sleepers, but distinct enough to reach Lowrie's hear- 
 ing. 
 
 " 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 summons for so many years without 
 learning what each tone meant. But she did not hesitate. 
 
 When she had hastily thrown on some clothing, she 
 Dpeued the door and stood before him. 
 
 " I did not expect to see yo' to-neet," she said, quietly. 
 
 " Happen not," he replied. " Coom out here. I ha' 
 Bummat 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 behind her. 
 
 There was the faintest possible light in the sky, the first 
 tint of dawn, and it showed even to his brutal eyes ali 
 the beauty of her face and figure as she stood motionless, 
 the dripping rain falling upon her ; there was so little 
 suggestion of fear about her that he was roused to fresl; 
 anger. 
 
THAT LASS V 10 WRISTS. 
 
 "Dom yo'l" he broke forth. "Do yo' know as I've 
 funyo' 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 keep quiet an' stond i' my way, an' houd me 
 back till I'd forgetten ? Yo're a brave wench 1 Nivver 
 moind how I fun yo' out, an' seed how it wur I've done 
 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 what I've getten to say. Yo're stub- 
 born enow, but yo' canna stop me. That's one 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' fancy as a hundred years ud ma.k' 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 
 wur goin' to do not as I say it is but if it wur murder 
 itsen an' yo' wur i' my way, theer mowt be two blows 
 struck i' stead o' one theer mowt be two murders done 
 an' I wunnot say which ud coom first fur I'll do what 
 I'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 broke out again. 
 
 " What ! " he cried. " Y<? hangin' on to gentlemen, an' 
 doggin' -em, an' draggin' yoursen thro' th' dark an' mire 
 to save 'em fro' havin' theer prutty faces hurt, an' getten 
 theer dues ! Yc? creepin' behind a mon as cares no more 
 fur yo' than he does for th' dirt at his feet, an' as laughs, 
 ten to one, to know as yo're ready to be picked up or 
 throwcd down at his pleasure 1 IV watchin' i' th' shade 
 
DAN LOWRIE'S RETURN. 167 
 
 o' trees an' stoppin' a mon by neet as would na stop to 
 speak to yo' by day. Dom yo' ! theer were na a mon i' 
 Riggan as dare touch yo' wi' a yard-stick until this chap 
 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 an assent. 
 
 " Theer's a few o' them words as yo've spoken as is na 
 true, but theer's others as is. It's true as I ha' set 
 mysen to watch, an' it's true as I mean to do it again. If 
 it's nowt but simple harm yo' mean, yo' shanna do it ; if 
 it's murder yo' mean an' I dunnot trust yo' as it is na 
 if it's murder yo' mean, theer's yo' an' me for it before 
 it's done ; an' if theer's deathly blows struck, the first shall 
 fa' on me. Theer!" and she struck herself upon her 
 breast. " If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' my loife 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' as that's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I 
 dunnot mean summat too," and he 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 on inside, as quietly as before. It was the 
 light-falling rain and the cool morning air that roused her. 
 She came to herself at last, feeling sick and dizzy, and 
 conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple. She 
 managed to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the 
 rough gate-post. She had borne such blows before, bat 
 
168 TEAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&B. 
 
 she had never felt her humiliation so bitterly as she did at 
 this moment. She laid her brow upon 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 my sen away. I could na bear fur him to see 
 it, even tho' I getten it fur his sake." 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE OLD DANGER. 
 
 IT had been some time since Derrick or. his nigktlj 
 
 valks homeward had been conscious of the presence of 
 
 the silent figure ; but the very night after the occurrence 
 
 narrated in the last chapter, he was startled at his first 
 
 turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan. 
 
 There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent 
 presence seemed only to widen the distance Fate had 
 placed between them. She was ready to shield him from 
 danger, but she held herself apart from him even in doing 
 so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature 
 of a different world, a world so separated from his own 
 that nothing could ever bridge the gulf between them. 
 
 To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to 
 speak to the girl. He had forborne for her sake before, 
 but to-night he was in one of those frames of mind in 
 which a man is selfish, and is apt to let his course 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 absurd that he should not show her that 
 he was not afraid. Why should she interpose her sing)e 
 strength between himself and the vengeance of a man of 
 whom he had had the best in their only encounter ? As 
 soon as they had readied the more unfrequented part of 
 the road, he wheeled round suddenly, and spoke. 
 
 " Joan," he said. 
 8 
 
170 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIETS. 
 
 He saw that she paused and hesitated, and he made up 
 his mind more strongly. He took a few impetuous steps 
 toward her, and seeing this, she addressed him hurriedly. 
 
 u Dunnot stop," she said. " If if yo' want to speak t< 
 UiC, I'll go along wi' yo'." 
 
 " You think I'm in danger ? " 
 
 He could not see her face, but her voice told him that 
 her usual steady composure was shaken it was almost like 
 the voice of another woman. 
 
 " Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yore loif e." 
 
 "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 danger and me ! " 
 
 His fire seemed to communicate itself to her. 
 
 " Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm,'- 
 she said, " an' wilj be done i' coward's fashion it is na a 
 harm as will be done yo' wi' fair warnin', i' dayleet, an 1 
 face to face. If it wur, I should na fear but th' way it 
 is, I say it shanna be done it shanna, if I dee fur it ! " 
 Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to 
 its first tremor. " It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. 
 Yo' munnot judge o' me as yo' judge o' other lasses. 
 What mowtn't be reet fur other lasses to do, is reet enow 
 fur me. It has na been left to me to be lass-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 to stand higher in my eyes than any othei 
 woman God ever made." 
 
 He could not have controlled himself. And yet, when 
 ho had said this, his heart leaped for fear he might have 
 
THE OLD DANGER. 171 
 
 wounded her or given her a false impression. But strange 
 to say, it proved this time that he had no need for fear. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then she answered 
 low. 
 
 " Thank yo'!" 
 
 They had gone some yards together, before he recovered 
 himself sufficiently to remember what he had meant to saj 
 to her. 
 
 " I wanted to tell you," he said, " that I do not think 
 any enemy I have, can take me at any very great dis 
 advantage. I am I have prepared myself." 
 
 She shuddered. 
 
 " Yo' carry summat ? " 
 
 " Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. " I shall 
 not use any weapon rashly. It is to be employed more 
 as a means of warning and alarm than anything else. 
 Kigganites do not like tire-arms, and they are not used to 
 them. I only tell you this, because I cannot bear that you 
 should expose yourself unnecessarily." 
 
 There was that in his manner which moved her as his 
 light touch had done that first night of their meeting, 
 when he had bound up her wounded temple with his 
 handkerchief. It was that her womanhood her hardly 
 used womanhood, of which she had herself thought with 
 such pathetic scorn was always before him, and was 
 even a stronger power with him than her marvellous 
 beauty. 
 
 She remembered the fresh bruise upon her brow, and 
 felt its throb with less of shame, because she bore it for 
 his sake. 
 
 " Promise me one thing," he went on. " And do not 
 think me ungracious in asking it of you promise me that 
 you will not come out again through any fear of danger 
 
172 THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS. 
 
 for i::e, unless it is a greater one than threatens me new 
 and one I am unprepared to meet." 
 
 " I eonna," she answered firmly. " I conna promise yo' 
 Yo' mun let me do as I ha' done fur th' sake o' my OWD 
 peace." 
 
 She made no further explanation, and he could not per- 
 suade her to alter her determination. In fact, he was led 
 to see at last, that there was more behind than she had 
 the will or power to reveal to him ; something in her reti- 
 cence silenced him. 
 
 " Yo' dunnot know what / do," she said before they 
 parted. "An' happen yo' would na quoite understand it 
 if yo' did. I dunnot do things lightly, I ha' no reason 
 to, an' I ha' set my moind on seein' that th' harm as hag 
 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' been doin', fur th' sake o' mysen, if fur 
 no one else." 
 
 The truth which he could not reach, and would not 
 have reached if he had talked to her till doomsday, was 
 that sne was right in saying that she could not give it up. 
 This woman had made no inconsequent boast when she 
 told her father that if deadly blows fell, they must fall 
 first upon herself. She was used to blows, she could 
 bear them, she was fearless before them, but she could 
 not have borne to sit at home, under any possibility of 
 wrong being done to this man. God knows what heavy 
 sadness had worn her soul, through the months in which 
 she had never for a moment flinched from the knowledge 
 that a whole world lay between herself and him. God 
 knows how she had struggled against the unconquerable 
 tide of feeling as it crept slowly upon her, refusing to be 
 stemmed and threatening to overwhelm her in its remorge- 
 
THE OLD DANGER. 173 
 
 jess waves. She was only left endurance yet even in 
 this there was a gladness which she had in nothing else. 
 She could ne7er meet him as a happier woman might, 
 but she could do for him what other women could not dc 
 she could brave darkness and danger, she could watch 
 over him, if need be ; if the worst came to the worht, she 
 could interpose herself between him and violence, or 
 death itself. 
 
 But of all this, Fergus Derrick suspected nothing. lie 
 only knew that while she had not misinterpreted his ap- 
 peal, ome reason of her own held her firm. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PACKAGE RETURNED. 
 
 As Joan timed the corner of a lane leading '.o the high- 
 road, she found herself awkwardly trying to pass a man 
 who confronted her a young fellow 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. "What is he doin' here ? " 
 
 But before she had finished speaking, she started at the 
 Bight of a figure hurrying on before her, Liz herself, who 
 had evidently just parted 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 her outgoing or incoming ; she 
 had been generously lenient toward her on every point, 
 and her pang at finding herself deceived was keen. Her 
 sudden discovery of the subterfuge filled her with alarm. 
 What was the meaning of it? Surely it could not mean 
 that this man was digging fresh pitfalls for the poor stray- 
 ing feet. She could not believe this, she could only 
 shudder as the ominous thought suggested itself. And 
 Liz nay, even Liz could not be weak enough to trifle with 
 danger again. 
 
 But it was Liz who was hurrying on before her, and 
 who was walking so fast that both were breathless when 
 
THE PACKAGE RETURNED. 175 
 
 Joan reached her side and laid a detaining hand upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Liz," she said, " are yo' af eard o' me 't " 
 
 Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. 
 There was a tone in the voice she had never heard before 
 a reproach in Joan's eyes before which she faltered. 
 
 " I did na know it wur yo'," she said, almost peevishly 
 "What fur should I be afeard o' yo'? " 
 
 Joan's hand dropped. 
 
 " To' know best," she answered. " I did na say yo' 
 wur." 
 
 Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in 
 nervous protest. 
 
 " 1 dunnot see why I should be, though to be sure it's 
 onow to fear one to be followed i' this way. Canna I g< 
 out fur a minnit wi'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 lone- 
 some i' th' house. Theer wur no harm i' comin' out." 
 
 " I hope to God theer wur na," exclaimed Joan. " I'd 
 rayther see thy dead face 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' back to shame an' ruin." 
 
 They were at home by this time, and she opened the 
 door to let the girl walk in before her. 
 
 " Get thee inside, Liz," she said. " I mun hear what 
 tba has to say, fur I conna 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' traps an' snares.' 1 ' 
 
THAT LASS 0' LO WRISTS 
 
 Liz took off her hat and shawl and sat down. She cov 
 ered her face with her hands, and sobbed appealingly. 
 
 " I ha' na done no harm," she protested. '' I nivver 
 meant none. It wur his fault. He wunnot let me a-be, 
 an' an' he said he wanted to hear summat about th' 
 choild, an' gi'e me summat to help me along. He said as 
 he wur ashamed o' hissen to ha' left me wi'out money, but 
 he wur hard run at the 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 wni 
 no harm " 
 
 " Ha' yo' gotten 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 
 pi ivate parlor at the principal hotel of the little town, was 
 disturbed in the enjoyment of his nightly cigar by tho 
 abrupt announcement of a visitor, a young woman, who 
 surprised him by walking into the room and straight up to 
 the table near which he sat. 
 
 She was such a very handsome young woman, witli 
 her large eyes and finely cut face, and heavy nut-brown 
 hair, and, despite her common dress, so very imposing a 
 yonng woman, that the young man was quite startled, 
 especially when she laid upon the table-cloth a little 
 package, which he knew had only left his hands half an 
 hour before. 
 
 " I ha' browt it back to yo' ; " she said, calmly. 
 
THE PACKAGE RETURNED. 177 
 
 He glanced down at the package and then up at her, 
 irritated and embarrassed. 
 
 " 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 do with you ? " 
 
 " Yo' may ask again, an' I con answer. I am th' poor 
 lass's friend, happen th' only friend she has i' th' world, 
 an' I tell yo' as I will na see yo' play her false again." 
 
 " The devil ! " he broke forth, angrily. " You speak as 
 as if you thought I meant her harm." 
 
 He colored and faltered, even as he spoke. Joan faced 
 him with bright and scornful eyes. 
 
 " If yo' dunnot mean her harm, duniiot lead her to 
 underhand ways o' deceivin' them as means her well. If 
 yo' dunnot mean her harm, tak' yore belongings 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 set your mind at rest. I shall not 
 leave Riggan to-morrow morning, as you modestly de- 
 mand not only because I have further business to trans- 
 act, but because I choose to remain. I shall not make 
 any absurd promises about not seeing Lizzie, which, it 
 neems to me, is more my business than yours, under the 
 circumstances and I shall not take the money back." 
 
 Yo' willna?" 
 
 " No, I will not." 
 
 " Very well. 1 ha' no more to say/' and she went oul 
 f the room, leaving the package lying upon the table. 
 8* 
 
J78 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRIST8. 
 
 When she reached home, Liz was still sitting as she hac 
 left her, and she looked up tearful and impatient 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 " He has th' money," was Joan's answer, " an' he ha' 
 shown me as he is a villain." 
 
 She came and stood near the girl, a strong emotion in 
 her half pitying, half appealing look. 
 
 " Lizzie, lass I " 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 what I do. It's aw as bad as ivver now. I 
 dunnot care for nowt. I vvery body's at me noan on yo' 
 will let me a-be. What wi' first one an' then another I'm 
 a'most drove wild." 
 
 " G-od help thee 1 " said Joan with a heavy sigh. " 1 
 dunnot mean to be hard, lass, but yo' mun promise me. 
 It is na mich, Lizzie, if if things is na worse wi' yo' than 
 I would ivver believe. Yo're safe so far : promise me aa 
 yo' will na run i' danger promise me as yo' will na see 
 that man again, 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 promise owt yo'll ax, if yo'll let me a-be," and 
 she hid her face upon her arms and wept alcud. 
 
CHAPTER XXVH 
 
 SAMMY CKADDOCK'S " MANNY-ENSIS." 
 
 AT bast twice a week Jud Bates made a pilgrimage to 
 ETaviland Park. Having been enlightened to the extent 
 of two or three chapters of " Robinson Crusoe," Sammy 
 Craddock was athirst for more. He regarded the adven- 
 tures of the hero as valuable information from foreign 
 shores, as information that might be used in political 
 debates, and brought forth on state occasions to floor a 
 presumptuous antagonist. Accordingly, he held out in- 
 ducements to Jud such as the boy was not likely to think 
 lightly of. A penny a night, and a good supper for him- 
 self and Nib, held solid attractions for Jud, and at this 
 salary he found himself engaged in the character of what 
 " Owd Sammy " called " a manny-ensis." 
 
 " What's that theer ? " inquired Mrs. Craddock on first 
 hearing this imposing 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 na know what such loike is thysen." 
 
 " It means a power o' things," answered Sammy ; " a 
 power o' things. It's a word as is comprehensive, as they 
 ca' it, an' it's one as will do as well as any fur tli' lad. A 
 manny-ensis 1 " and manny-ensis it remained. 
 
 Surely the adventures of the island-solitary had nevei 
 given such satisfaction as they gave in the cheery house 
 
i_gO THAT LASS V LOWRIE'S. 
 
 room of the lodge. Sammy listened to them over immer 
 ous pipes, with a respect for literature such as had nevei 
 before been engendered in his mind by the most imposing 
 display of bindings. 
 
 " I've allus thowt as th' newspaper wur enow fur a mon 
 to tackle," he would say, reflectively ; " but theer's sum- 
 mat outside o' th' newspapers. I nivver seed a paper as 
 had owt in it about desert islands, let alone caniiybles." 
 
 " Cannybles, indeed ! " replied Mrs. Craddock, whc 
 was occasionally one of the audience. " I conna mak : no 
 sense out o' thee an' thy cannybles. I wonder they are 
 na' shamt o' theirsens, goin' about wi'out so mich as a 
 hat on, an' eatin' each other, as if there wur na a bit o' 
 good victual i' 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, let alone Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 " Eh ! " said Sammy ; but tha'rt i' a muddle. Th'dst 
 allus be i' a ruuddle if 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' f urrin lands, owd 
 wench, i' a desert island i' th' midst o' th' sea." 
 
 " "Well, I wur hopin' it wur na i' Lancashire, I mun 
 eayl" 
 
 " Lancashire 1 Why, it happent further off nor Lunnori, 
 i' a place as it's loike th' Queen has nivver seed nor heerd 
 tell on." 
 
 The old woman looked dubious, if not disapproving. 
 A place that was not in Lancashire, and that the Queen 
 had nothing to do with, was, to her,' a place quite " ofl 
 color." 
 
 " Well ! well ! " she resumed, with the manner of an 
 unbeliever, " thee go on thy way readin' if tha con tak' 
 
SAMMY URADDOCK'S " MANNY-ENSI8." 181 
 
 comfort i' it. But I mun say again as it does na sound 
 Christian to me. That's the least I con say on't." 
 
 " Tha'rt slow i' understanding owd lass," was her hus- 
 band's tolerant comment. " Tha does na know enow o 5 
 litteiytoor to appreciate. Th' female intylect is na 
 strong at th' best, an' tha nivver wur more than ordinary. 
 Get into it, Manny-ensis. It's getten late, and I'm fain to 
 hear more about th' mon Friday, an' how th' poor chap 
 managed." 
 
 Both reader and audience were so full of interest that 
 Jud's story was prolonged beyond the usual hour. But 
 to the boy, this was a matter of small consequence. He 
 had tramped the woods too often with Nib for a compan- 
 ion to feel fear at any time. He had slept under a hedge 
 many a night from choice, and had enjoyed his slumber 
 like a young vagabond, as he was. 
 
 He set out on this occasion in high good humor. There 
 were no clouds to hide the stars ; he had had an excellent 
 supper, and he had enjoyed his evening. He trudged along 
 cheerily, his enjoyment as yet unabated. The trees and 
 hedges, half stripped of their leaves, were so suggestive of 
 birds' nests, that now and then he stepped aside to exam- 
 ine them more closely. The nests might be there yet, 
 though the birds had flown. Where throstles had built 
 this year, it was just possible others might build again, 
 and, at any rate, it was as well to know where their 
 haunts had been. So, having objects enough to attract 
 his attention, the boy did not find the way long. He was 
 close upon the mine before he had time to feel fatigue 
 possible, and, nearing the mine, he was drawn from hi& 
 path again by a sudden remembrance brought up by the 
 eight of a hedge surrounding a field near it. 
 
 " Theer wur a bird as built i' that hedge i' th' spring,' 
 
182 THAT LASti 0' LO WRIE^S. 
 
 he said. "She wur a new kind. I'd forgotten her. 1 
 meant to ha' watched her. Lwonder if 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 this treasure ; but not being quite certain as to 
 the exact spot, he found his search lengthened by thip 
 uncertainty. 
 
 " It wur here," he said to himself ; " at least I thowt it 
 wur. Some chap mun ha' fun it an' tuk it." 
 
 At this moment he paused, as if listening. 
 
 " What's that theer ? " he said. " Theer's some one OP 
 th' other side o' th' hedge." 
 
 lie had been attracted by the sound of voices men's 
 voices the voices of men who were evidently crouching 
 under the shadow of the hedge on the other side, and 
 whose tones in a moment more reached him distinctly, 
 and were recognized. 
 
 The first was Dan Lowrie's, and before he had heard 
 him utter a dozen words, Jud dropped upon his knees and 
 laid his hand warningly upon Nib's neck. 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 a whine. 
 
 " Them as is feared to stand by Dan Lowrie," said the 
 voice, with an oath, " 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 what yo' ha' getten to do. Yo' ha' 
 th' vitriol an' th' sticks. Wait yo' fur him at th 5 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 
 frak's weMl be ready fur him. Blast him ! he'll be done 
 
SAMMY CRADDOCK'8 "MANXY-BNBIB.* 183 
 
 wi' engineerin' fur a while 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 un 
 easily among the dead leaves, and the men heard him 
 Not a moment's space was given to the two listeners, 01 
 they would have saved themselves. There was a smoth- 
 ered exclamation from three voices at once, a burst of 
 profanity, and Dan Lowrie had leaped the low hedge and 
 caught Jud by the collar. The man was ghastly with 
 rasre. He shook the lad until even he himself was breath- 
 
 "Yo 5 young devil!" he cried, hoarsely, "yo've been 
 listenin', ha' yo' ? Nay, theer's no use o' yo' tryin' tc 
 brave it out. Yo've done for yorsen, by God ! " 
 
 " Let me a-be," said Jud, but he was as pale as his 
 captor. " I wur na doin' thee no harm. I on'y coom to 
 look fur a bird's nest." 
 
 " Yo' listened," said Lowrie ; " yo' 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 coom out, 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 his companion followed him ; and seeing 
 who they were, Jud felt that his position was even more 
 dangerous than he fancied at first. The three plotters 
 who grouped themselves about him were three of the 
 most desperate fell' ws in the district brutal, revengeful, 
 vickns, combining all the characteristics of a bad class, 
 
184 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&S. 
 
 The two last looked at him with evident discomfort and 
 bewilderment. 
 
 " Here's a pretty go," said one. 
 
 "Aye, by th Lord Harry 1" added the othei. "How 
 long's he bin here \ " 
 
 " How long'st bin here ? " demanded Lowrie, with an 
 other shake. 
 
 " Long enow to look fur a bird's nest an' not find it," 
 said Jud, trying to 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 swing fur it." 
 
 Nib gave a low whine, and Jud's heart leaped within 
 him. Every lad in Riggan knew Dan Lowrie and feared 
 him. There was not a sonl within hearing, and people 
 were not fond of visiting the mine at night, so if they 
 chose to dispose of him in any way, they would have time 
 and opportunity to do it without risk of being interfered 
 with. JBut it happened that upon the present occasion 
 Lowrie's friends were not as heated as himself. It waa 
 not a strictly personal grudge they were going to settle, 
 and consequently some remnant of humanity got the bet- 
 ter of them. 
 
 " Nay," said the youngest, " one's enow." 
 
 " Nay," Lowrie put in ; " one's not enow fur me, if 
 theer's another as is goin' to meddle. Summat's getten 
 to be done, an' done quick." 
 
 "Mak' him promise to keep his nouth shut," sug 
 
SAMMY CRADDOCK'S u MANNY-ENSIS." 185 
 
 gested No. 3. "He'll do it sooner rior get hissen into 
 trouble." 
 
 " Wilt ta ? " demanded the young one. 
 
 Jud looked up at him. He had the stubborn North coun- 
 try blood in him, and the North country courage. Having 
 heard what he had, he was sharp enough to comprehend 
 all. There was only one engineer whom Lowrie could have 
 a grudge against, and that one was Derrick. They were 
 going to work some harm against " Mester Derrick," who 
 was his friend and Miss Anice's. 
 
 " Wilt ta ? " repeated his questioner, feeling quite sure of 
 him. The youth of Riggan were generally ready enough 
 for miajhief, and troubled by no scruples of conscience, 
 BO the answer he received took hirn by surprise. 
 
 "Nay," said Jud, " I will na." 
 
 "Tha willna?" 
 
 "Nay." 
 
 The fellow fell back a step or two to stare at him. 
 
 il 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 fur Nib when- 
 ivver he gits i' yore way ; but he nivver so much as spoke 
 rough to him. He's gin me a penny more nor onct to buy 
 him summat to eat. Chuck me down the shaft, if yo' 
 want to." 
 
 Though he scarcely believed they would take him at 
 his word, since the two were somewhat in Lis favor, it 
 waB a courageous thing to say. If his fate had rested in 
 Lowrie's hands alone, heaven knows what the result might 
 have been ; but having the ethers to contend vrith, he waa 
 Bafe so far. But there was not much time to Joee, and 
 
186 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIETS. 
 
 even the less interested parties to the transgression had a 
 stolid determination to stand by their comrade. There 
 was a hurried consultation held in undertones, and then 
 the youngest man bent suddenly, and, with a short laugh, 
 caught Nib in his arms. He was vicious enough to take 
 a pleasure in playing tormentor, if in his cooler moods he 
 held back from committing actual crime. 
 
 "Tha'rt a plucky young devil," he said; "but tha's 
 getten to swear to howd thy tongue between thy teeth, an 
 if tha wunnot do it fur thy own sake, happen tha will fur 
 th' dog's." 
 
 " What art tha goin' to do wi' him ? " cried Jud, trem- 
 bling. " He has na done yo' no hurt." 
 
 " "We're goin' to howd him over th' shaft a minnit till tha 
 mak's up thy rnind. Bring th' young chap along, lads." 
 
 He had not struggled before, but he began to struggle 
 now with all his strength. He grew hot and cold by turns. 
 It might not be safe to kill him ; but it would be safe 
 enough to kill Nib. 
 
 " Let me a-be," he cried. " Let that theer dog loose. 
 Nib, Nib, seize him, lad ! " 
 
 " Put thy hond over his mouth," said the young man. 
 
 And so Jud was half dragged, half carried to the shaft. 
 It was as useless for him to struggle as it \vas for Nib. 
 Both were powerless. But Jud's efforts to free himself 
 were so frantic that the men laughed, Lowrie grimly, 
 the other two with a kind of malicious enjoyment of the 
 grotesqueness of the situation. 
 
 " Set him down, but keep him quiet," was the command 
 given when they reached the pit's side. 
 
 The next instant a dreadful cry was smothered in the 
 boy's grappled throat. They were leaning against the 
 rail and holding Nib over the black abyss. 
 
BAMM7 CRADDOCK^S " MANNY-ENSI8." 18? 
 
 " Wilt ta promise ? " he w&s asked. " Tha may let him 
 speak, Lowrie ; he canna 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're noan goin' to do th' chap ony great harm ; 
 we're on'y goin' to play him a trick to pay him back fur 
 his cheek. 5> 
 
 Jud looked at Nib 
 
 " Lowrie said yc had vitriol and knob-sticks," he fal- 
 tered. " Yo' dunnat play tricks wi' them" 
 
 "Y6' see how much he's heerd," said Lowrie. " Hell 
 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 threatening gesture. " We conna stand here aw neet. 
 Promise tst will na tell mon, woman, nor choild, what tha 
 heerd us eay. When I say 'three,' I'll drop th' dog. 
 One two " 
 
 The look of almost human terror in Nib's eyes was too 
 much for his master. Desperation filled him. He could 
 not sacrifice Nib he could not sacrifice the man who had 
 been Nib's friend ; but ho might make a sort of sacrifice 
 of himself to both. 
 
 " Stop ! " he cried. " I'll promise yo'." 
 
 He had saved Nib, bu t there was some parleying before 
 he was set free, notwithstanding his promise to be silent. 
 But for the fact that he was under the control of the 
 others for the time being, Lowrie would have resorted tc 
 harsher precautions ; but possibly influenced by a touch 
 
188 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIETb. 
 
 of admiration for the lad, the youngest man held out 
 against his companions. They wrangled together for a 
 few minutes, and then Nib was handed over. 
 
 "Here, cut an' run, tha young beggar," said the 
 fellow who had stood by him, " an' dunnot let's hear ony 
 more on thee. If we do, it'll be worse fur thee an' tb' 
 dog too. So look out." 
 
 Jud did not wait for a second command. The instant 
 he felt Nib in his arms, he scudded over the bare space 
 of ground before him at his best speed. They should not 
 have time to repent their decision. If the men had 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 any other young Higgan rascal of his 
 age. After all, it was not so much his promise they relied 
 on as his wholesome fear of the consequences of its being 
 broken. It was not a matter of honor but of dread. 
 
WARNED. 
 
 IT was even later than usual this evening when Fergus 
 Deriick left the rectory. When Mr. Barholm was in his 
 talkative mood, it was not easy for him to break away. 
 So Derrick was fain to listen and linger, and then supper 
 was brought in and he was detained again, and at eleven' 
 o'clock Mr. Barholm suddenly hit upon a new topic. 
 
 " By the bye," he said, " where is that fellow, Lowrie ? 
 I thought he had left Higgan." 
 
 " He did leave Riggan," answered Derrick. 
 
 " So I heard," returned the rector, " and I suppose I 
 was mistaken in fancying I caught sight of him to-day. 
 I don't know the man very well and I might easily be 
 deceived. But where is he ? " 
 
 " I think," said Derrick, quietly, " that he is in Biggan. 
 I am not of the opinion that you were mistaken at alL I 
 am sure he is here, but. for reasons of his own he is keep- 
 ing himself quiet. I know him too well to be deceived 
 by any fancied resemblance." 
 
 " But what are his reasons ? " was the next question. 
 ;< That looks bad, you know. He belongs to a bad crew." 
 
 " Bad enough," said Derrick. 
 
 " Is it a grudge ? He is j ust the rascal to bear & 
 grudge." 
 
 " Yes,' 1 said Derrick. " It is a grudge against me" 
 
 He looked up then across the table at Anice and smiled 
 reassuringly. 
 
190 THAT LASS O 1 LO}VR T EPS. 
 
 " You did not tell us that you had seen him," sLe said. 
 
 " ~No. You think I ought to be afraid of him, and ] 
 am too vain to like to admit the possibility that it would 
 be better to fear any man, even a Riggan collier." 
 
 " But such a man ! " put ir. Mrs. Barholm. " It seems 
 to me he is a man to be feared." 
 
 " I can thrash him," said Derrick. He could not help 
 feeling some enjoyment in this certainty. " I did thrash 
 him upon one occasion, you know, and a single combat 
 with a fellow of that kind is oftener than not decisive." 
 
 " Yes," said the rector, " that is the principal cause of 
 his grudge, I think. He might forgive you for getting 
 him into trouble, but he will never forgive you for thrash- 
 ing him." 
 
 They were still sitting at the table discussing the mat- 
 ter, when Anice, who sat opposite a window, rose from 
 her seat, and crossing the room to it, drew aside the cur- 
 tain and looked out. 
 
 " There was somebody there," she said, in answer to 
 the questioning in the faces of her companions. " There 
 was a face pressed close against the glass for a minute, 
 and I am sure it was Jud Bates." 
 
 Derrick sprang from his chair. To his mind, it did 
 not appear at all unlikely that Jud Bates had mischief in 
 hand. There were apples enough in the rectory garden 
 to be a sore trial to youthful virtue. 
 
 He opened the door and stepped into the night, and in 
 a short time a sharp familiar yelp fell upon the ears of 
 the listeners. Almost immediately 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 
 oaough. He was pale and out of breath, he had no cap 
 
WARNED. 191 
 
 on, and he was holding .Nib, panting and excited, in hia 
 amis. 
 
 " Jud," exclaimed Anice, "what have you been doing ? 
 Why did you come to the window ? " 
 
 Jud drew Nib closer, and turned, if possible, a triile 
 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's head and faltered. 
 
 " I " he said. " I wanted to stop him. I I dun not 
 
 know And then the rest came in a burst. " He 
 
 munnot go," he cried, trembling afresh. " He mun 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' Knoll Road. I'm gettin' myself i' trouble," he 
 added, the indifference of despair 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 his hand. He looked roused and determined. 
 
 " There are two or three stout colliers in Riggan who 
 are my friends, I think," he said, " and I am going to ask 
 them to face the Knoll Road with me. I should like to 
 settle this matter to-night. If I give these fellows the 
 
192 THAT LASS & LOWKI&S. 
 
 chance to attack me, they will be the more easily disposed 
 of. 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 was forced. He did not question Jud closely. 
 He knew Riggan and the mining districts too well not to 
 have a clear enough idea of what means of vengeance 
 would be employed. 
 
 But when he got out into the night he had not gone 
 many yards before a new thought flashed upon him, and 
 quickened his pulse. It was not a pleasant thought be 
 cause it checked him, and he was in a mood to feel 
 impatient of a check. But he could not throw it off. 
 There arose within his mind a picture of a silent room in 
 a cottage, of a girl sitting by the hearth. He seemed to 
 see quite clearly the bent head, the handsome face, 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 of the 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 it will 
 not be long, and she need torture herself no more. I will 
 give it up. Let them think I am afraid to face him. I 
 am afraid afraid to wound the woman I yes the 
 woman I love." 
 
CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 LYING IN WAIT. 
 
 Liz srept close to the window and looked down the road. 
 At this time of the 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 turned toward its fire 
 when it had one. And yet Liz had hardly seen that the 
 sun had shone at all to-day. Still, seeing her face, a 
 passer-by would not have fancied that she was chilled. 
 There was a flush upon her cheeks, and her eyes were 
 more than usually bright. She was watching for Joan 
 with a restless eagerness. 
 
 " She's late," she said. " I motight ha' knowed she'd 
 be late. I wishf she'd coorn I do. An' yet an' yet I'm 
 feart. I wisht it wur over ; " and she twisted her fingers 
 together nervously. 
 
 She had laid the child upon the bed, and presently it 
 roused her with a cry. She went to it, took it up into 
 her arms, and, carrying it to the fire, sat down. 
 
 " Why couldn't tha stay asleep ? " she said. " 1 nivver 
 seed a choild loike thee." 
 
 But the next minute, the little creature whimpering, 
 she bent down in impatient repentance and kissed it, 
 whimpering too. 
 
 "Dunnot," she said. "I conna bear to hear thee. 
 Hush, thee 1 tha goes on 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 J ain." 
 9 
 
194 THAT LASS O> LOWRIE'S. 
 
 She did not kiss the child again, but held it in her listles* 
 way even after it fell asleep. She rested an elbow on her 
 knee and her chin upon her hand while her tearful eyea 
 searched the fire, and thus Joan found her when she camp 
 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 fire-light. 
 The little one always won her first attention when shf- 
 came from her day's labor. 
 
 " Has she been f rettin' ? " she asked. 
 
 " Ay," said Liz, " she's done nowt else but fret lately. 
 I dunnot know what ails her." 
 
 She was in Joan's arms by this time and Joan stood 
 looking at the puny face. . 
 
 " She is na well," she said in a low voice. " She haa 
 pain as we know nowt on, poor little lass. We conna help 
 her, or bear it fur her. "We would if we 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 an- 
 swered. 
 
 She thought afterward of the girl's words and remem- 
 bered how she looked when she uttered them, her piteous 
 eyes resting on the embers, her weak little mouth quiver- 
 ing, her small hands at work, but when she heard 
 them, she only recognized in them a new touch of the old 
 petulance to which she had become used. 
 
LYING IN WAIT. 195 
 
 Joan went about her usual tasks, holding the baby it 
 her arms. She prepared the evening meal with Liz's assist- 
 ance and they sat down to eat it together. But Liz had 
 little appetite. Indeed neither of them ate much and both 
 were more than usually silent. A shadow of reserve 
 had lately fallen between them. 
 
 After the meal was ended they drew their seats to the 
 hearth again, and Liz went back to her brooding over the 
 tire. 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 kiiot upon her small head, her pretty, 
 babyish face was at its best of bloom and expression that 
 absent, 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 she lived to be a woman, do yo' think as she'd 
 remember me if if owt should happen 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 be best 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 good wench. 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 go wrong. Tha'rt so strong like. An' 
 tha'rt patient, too, Joan, an' noan loike the rest o' worn**** 
 
196 THAT LAtiX </ LO WRIW8. 
 
 1 dnunot think if owt wur to happen me now as tha'c 
 ha' hard thowts o' me. Wouldst tha ? " wistfully. 
 
 "Nay, lass. I've been fond o' thee, a a' sorry fur thee, 
 and if tha wur to dee tha mayst mak' sure I'd noan be 
 lurd on thee. But tha art na goin' to dee, I hope." 
 
 To her surprise the girl caught her hand, and, pulling 
 it down upon her knee, laid her cheek against it and burst 
 intc tears. 
 
 " I dunnot know ; I mought, or or suminat. But 
 nivver tha turn agen me, Joan, nivver tha hate me. I 
 am na loike thee, I wur na made loike thee. 1 conna 
 stand up agen things, but I dunnot think as I'm so bad as 
 foaks say 1 " 
 
 When this impassioned mood passed away, she was 
 silent again for a long time. The baby fell asleep upon 
 Joan's breast, but she did not move it, she liked to feel 
 it resting there ; its close presence always seemed 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 j em. They did na coom in, though, they waited i' th' 
 road, while he went i' th' back room 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 
 feyther said, ' Ay,' an' th' other two laughed as if they wur 
 on a spree o' some soart." 
 
 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 aili 
 thee, Joan ? " 
 
LYING IN WAIT. 197 
 
 " I ha' summat to do," said Joan. " Stay tha here with 
 th' choild." And almost before she finished speaking she 
 was gone, and the door had closed behind her. 
 
 There would be three of them against one man. She 
 walked faster as she thought of it, and her breath waa 
 drawn heavily. 
 
 Lowrie bent down in his hiding-place, smiling grimly. 
 He knelt upon the grass behind a hedge at the road-side. 
 He had reached the place a quarter of an hour before, and 
 he had chosen his position as coolly as if he had been sit- 
 ting down to take his tramp dinner in the shade. There 
 was a gap in the hedge and he must not be too near to it or 
 too far from it. 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 lay concealed 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, 
 the game 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 coorn 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 my sen, I shall ha' 
 a bit o' an account 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 
 eees him next, I'll warrant." 
 
 He had hit upon the greater villainy of stopping short 
 of murder, if he could contain himself when the time 
 came. 
 
 At this instant a sound reached his ears which caused 
 
198 THAT LASS O> LOWR1&S. 
 
 him to start. He bent forward slightly toward the gap tc 
 listen. There were footsteps upon the road above him 
 footsteps that sounded familiar. Clouds had drifted across 
 the sky and darkened it, but he had heard that tread too 
 often to mistake it now when every nerve was strung to 
 its highest tension. 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 good as her word ! " with an oath. 
 
 He got up and stood a second trembling with rage. 
 He drew his sleeve across his forehead and wiped away 
 the sweat, and then turned round sharply. 
 
 " 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 her summat 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 was a murmur he did not understand, a rush, a 
 heavy rain of blows, a dash of something in his face 
 that scorched like liquid fire, and with a shriek, lie fell 
 writhing. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE SLIP OF PAPER. 
 
 A MINUTE . ater there rushed past Joan, in the darkness, 
 two men, stumbling and cursing as they went, out of 
 broath, horror-stricken and 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 the road, their echo dying in the distance, 
 made the only sound that broke the stillness. There was 
 not even a groan. Yet a few paces from her, lay a bat- 
 tered, bleeding form. There was no starlight now, she 
 could see only the vague outline of the figure, which might 
 be that of either one man or the other. For an instant, the 
 similarity in stature which had deceived his blundering 
 companions, deceived her also ; but when she knelt down 
 and touched the shoulder, she knew it was not the master 
 who lay 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 con- 
 Bcious that she tried to raise him ; his head hung forward 
 when she lifted him ; he lay heavily, and without motion, 
 upon her arms. 
 
200 THAT LAtiS 0' LO WRI&S. 
 
 " They ha' killed him ! " she said. " How is it, as, it ii 
 na him ? " 
 
 There was neither light nor help nearer than " The 
 Crown " itself, and when her brain became clearer, she 
 remembered this. Without light and assistance, she could 
 do nothing; she could riot even see what hurt he had sus- 
 tained. Dead or dying, he must lie here until she had 
 time to get help. 
 
 She took off her shawl, and folding it, laid his head 
 gently upon it. Then she put her lips to his ear. 
 
 " Feyther," she said, " I'm goin' to bring help to thee. 
 If tha con hear me, 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 door inward 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. My feyther's lyin' in the Knoll Road, 
 done to death." 
 
 All were astir in a moment. Lanterns and other neces- 
 saries were provided, and bearing one of these lanterns 
 herself, Joan led the way. 
 
 As she stepped out onto the pavement a man was pass- 
 ing, and, attracted by 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 the colliers. " It's this lass's feyther, 
 Dan Lowrie."" 
 
 The man strode into the light and showed an agitated 
 face. 
 
 " Killed ! " he said, Dan Lowrie 1 " 
 
 It was Fergus Derrick. 
 
THE SLIP OF PAPER. 201 
 
 He recognized Joan immediately, and went to her. 
 
 " For pity's sake," he exclaimed, " don't go with them. 
 If what they say is true, this is no place for you. Let me 
 take you home. You ought not " 
 
 " 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 enemy had reaped the 
 whirlwind he had himself sown. 
 
 It was he who knelt first by the side of the prostrate 
 man, holding the lantern above the almost unrecognizable 
 face. Then he would have raised the lifeless hand, but 
 Joan, who had bent down near him, stopped him with 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 passionate undertone, the miserable words : 
 
 " Ther's blood on it, as might ha' bin yore own.'' 
 
 " Theer's a bottle here," some one cried out suddenly. 
 " A bottle as I just set my foot on. Chaps, theer's been 
 vitriol throwed." 
 
 " Ay," cried another, " so theer has ; chaps, look yo' here. 
 Th' villains has vitrioled him." 
 
 They laid him upon the shutter they had brought, and 
 carried him homeward. Joan and Derrick were nearest 
 to him as they walked. 
 
 They were not far from the cottage, and it was not long 
 before the light glimmered through the window upon them. 
 Seeing it, Joan turned to Derrick 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." 
 
 9* 
 
202 THAT LASS CP LO WRISTS. 
 
 Reaching the house, she pushed the door open and wem 
 in. Everything was so 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 at the bed and saw the child lying there 
 asleep. Liz was not with it. She passed 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 the child, saw a slip of paper pinned upon its breast 
 and upon this paper Joan read, in the sprawling, uncer^ 
 tain 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 the center of the room, holding the scrap of paper 
 in her hand. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE LAST BLOW. 
 
 " HE -wwit live," the doctor said to Derrick. " He's no*, 
 tlie man to get over such injuries, powerful as he looks. 
 ELe has been a reckless, drunken brute, and what with the 
 shock and reaction nothing will save him. 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's antecedents will help them to a result they 
 may not have aimed at. We may as well tell the girl, 
 I suppose fine creature, that girl, by the way. She won't 
 have any sentimental regrets. It's a good riddance for 
 her, 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 increased pallor. She remembered the wounded 
 man only as a bad husband and a bad father. Her life 
 would have been less hard to bear if he had died years ago, 
 but now that death stood near him, a miserable sense of 
 desolateness fell upon her, inconsistent as such a feeling 
 might seem. 
 
 The village was full of excitement during this week. 
 Everybody was ready with suggestions and conjecture?, 
 everybody wanted to account for the assault. At first there 
 seemed no accounting for it at all, but at length some one 
 recollected that Lowrie had been last seen with Spring 
 and Braddy. They had " gotten up a row betwixt their- 
 sens, and t'others had punsed him," 
 
204 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIETS. 
 
 The greatest mystery was the use of vitriol. It could 
 only be decided that it had not been an ordinary case oi 
 neighborly " punsing," and that there must have been a 
 "grudge" in the matter. Spring and Braddy had disap- 
 peared, and all efforts to discover their whereabouts were 
 unavailing. 
 
 On the subject of Liz's flight Joan was silent, but it did 
 not remain a secret many hours. A collier's wife had seen 
 her standing, crying, and holding a little bundle on her 
 arm at the corner of a lane, and having been curious enough 
 to watch, had also seen Landsell join her a few minutes 
 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 as if she could na mak' up 
 her moind whether to go or no. She wur a soft thing, 
 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's getten th' choild on her 
 bonds." 
 
 The double shock had numbed Joan. She went about 
 the place and waited upon her father in a dull, mechani- 
 cal way. She said but little to the curious crowd, who, on 
 pretense of .being neighborly, flocked to the house. She 
 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 need us yet." 
 
 He made the remark in the rector's presence and the 
 Reverend Harold did not agree with him. 
 
 "I am convinced that you are mistaken, Grace," he 
 said. "You are a little too well, too delicately meta 
 
THE LAST S^OTF 205 
 
 physical for these people. You have sensitive fancies 
 about them, and they are not a sensitive class. What 
 they want is good strong doctrine, and a certain degree 
 of wholesome frankness. They need teaching. That 
 young woman, now -it seems to me that this is the timo 
 to rouse her to a sense of her her moral condition. She 
 ought to be roused, and so ought the man. It is a great 
 pity that he is unconscious." 
 
 Of Joan's strange cDnfession of faith, Anice had told 
 him something, but he had been rather inclined to pro- 
 nounce it " emotional," and somehow or other could not 
 quite divest himself of the idea that she needed the special 
 guidance of a well-balanced and experienced mind. The 
 well-balanced and experienced mind in view was his own, 
 though of course he was not aware of the fact that he 
 would not have been satisfied with that of any other in- 
 dividual. He was all the more disinclined to believe in 
 Joan's conversion because his interviews with her continued 
 to be as unsatisfactory as ever. Her manner had altered ; 
 she had toned down somewhat, but she still caused him 
 to feel ill at ease. If she did not defy him any longer or 
 set his teachings at naught, her grave eyes, resting on him 
 silently, had sometimes the effect of making his words 
 fail him ; which was a novel experience with the rector. 
 
 In a few days Lowrie began to sink visibly. As the 
 doctor predicted, the reaction was powerful, and remedies 
 were of no avail. He lay upon the bed, at times uncon- 
 scious, at times tossing to and fro in delirium. During 
 her watching at the bedside, Joan learned the truth. 
 Sometimes he fancied himself tramping the Knoll Road 
 homeward through the rain, and then he muttered sullenly 
 of the " day " that was coming to him, and the vengeance 
 
206 THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&S. 
 
 he was returning to take ; sometimes he went through the 
 scene with Joan herself, and again, he waited behind the 
 hedge for his enemy, one moment exultant, the next striv 
 ing to struggle to his feet with curses upon his lips and 
 rage in his heart, as he caught the sound of the advancing 
 steps he knew eo well. As he went over these scenes again 
 and again, it was plain enough to the listener that his ven- 
 geance had fallen 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," he said. " It wur na fur fro' wheer they 
 fun Lowrie. Happen them chaps laid i' 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 to him he inspected it closely. 
 
 "Why!" he exclaimed. "It's Lowrie's own. 1 seed 
 him wi' it th' day afore he 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 the story without comment. There was no rea- 
 son why they should be told what she had already discov- 
 ered. 
 
 When Lowrie died, Anice and Grace were in the room 
 with Joan. After the first two days the visitors had 
 dropped off. They had satisfied their curiosity. Lowrie 
 was not a favorite, and Joan had always seemed to stand 
 apart from her fellows, so they were left to themselves. 
 
 Jean was standing near the bed when there came to him 
 fais first and last gleam of consciousness. The sun was 
 setting and its farewell glow streaming through the window 
 fell upon his disfigured face and sightless eyes. He roused 
 himself, moving uneasily. 
 
THE LAST BLOW. 207 
 
 " "WLat's up wi' me ? " he muttered. " I conna see ] 
 conna " 
 
 Joan stepped forward. 
 
 " Feyther," she said. 
 
 Then memory seemed to return to him. An angry 
 light shot across his face. He flung out his hands and 
 groaned : 
 
 "What!" he cried, "tha art theer, art tha? " and help- 
 less and broken as he was, he wore that moment a look 
 Joan had long ago learned to understand. 
 
 "Ay, feyther," she answered. 
 
 It appeared as if, during the few moments in which he 
 Jay gasping, a fall recognition of the fact that he had been 
 baffled and beaten after all that his plotting had been of 
 no avail forced itself upon him. He made an effort to 
 speak once or twice and failed, but at last the words came. 
 
 " Tha went agen me, did tha ? " he panted. " Dom 
 thee ! " and with a struggle to summon all his strength, he 
 raised himself, groping, struck at her with his clenched 
 hand, and failing to reach her, fell forward with his face 
 upon the bed. 
 
 It was all over when they raised him and laid him back 
 again. Joan at )od upright, trembling a little, but other- 
 wise cairn. 
 
CHAPTER XAXI1. 
 
 " TTJKNED METHODY ! " 
 
 Tr had been generally expected that when all was cvei 
 the cottage npon the Knoll Road would be closed and 
 deserted, but some secret fancy held Joan to the spot. 
 Perhaps the isolation suited her mood ; perhaps the mere 
 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' no friends, yo' know. Aa 
 to th' choild, I con carry it to Thwaite's wife i' 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 little burden in her arms. The child was a frail, 
 tiny creature, never strong, and often suffering, and its very 
 frailty drew Joan nearer to it. It was sadly like Liz, pretty 
 and infantine. Many a rough but experienced mother, 
 seeing it, prophesied that its battle with life would bo 
 brief. With the pretty face, it had inherited also the help- 
 less, irresolute, appealing look. Joan saw this in the 
 baby's eyes sometimes and was startled at its familiarity ; 
 even the low, fretted cry had in it something that waa 
 painfully like its girl-mother's voice. More than once a 
 sense of fear had come upon Joan when she heard and 
 recognized it. But her love only seemed to strengthen 
 with her dread. 
 
" TURNED METHOD Y: 20ft 
 
 Day by da}' those who worked with her felt more strocgty 
 the change developing so subtly in the girl. The massive 
 beauty which had almost seemed to scorn itself was begin- 
 ning to wear a different aspect ; the defiant bitterness of 
 look and tone was almost a thing of the past ; the rough, 
 contemptuous speech was less scathing and more merciful 
 when at rare intervals it broke forth. 
 
 " Summat has coom over her," they said among them- 
 selves. "Happen it wur trouble. She wur different, 
 somehow." 
 
 They were somewhat uneasy under this alteration ; but 
 on the whole, the general feeling was by no means un- 
 friendly. Time had been when they had known Joan 
 Lowrie only as a " lass " who held herself aloof, and yet in 
 a manner overruled them ; but in these days more than 
 one stunted, overworked girl or woman found her hard 
 task rendered easier by Joan's strength and swiftness. 
 
 It was true that his quiet and unremitted efforts had 
 smoothed Grace's path to some extent. There were ill- 
 used women whom he had helped and comforted ; there 
 were neglected children whose lives he had contrived to 
 brighten ; there were unbelievers whose scoffing his gen 
 tie simplicity and long-suffering had checked a little. He 
 could be regarded no longer with contempt in Riggan ; he 
 even had his friends there. 
 
 Among those who still mildly jeered at the little parson 
 Btowd foremost, far more through vanity than malice, " O wd 
 Sammy Craddock." A couple of months after Lowrie'a 
 death, " Owd Sammy " had sauntered down to the mine 
 one day, and was entertaining a group of admirers when 
 Grace went by. 
 
 It chanced that, for some reason best krown to himself 
 Sammy was by no means in a good humor. Something 
 
210 THAT LASS 0' LOWRISTS. 
 
 had gone wrong at home or abroad, and his 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, f Heads ! " 
 
 " Owd Sammy " glanced down at him with condescend 
 ing tolerance. He had been talking himself, and the greet 
 ing 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. Some of the men had noted her presence when 
 they lounged by, but in the enjoyment of their gossip, they 
 had forgotten her again. She had seen Grace too ; she had 
 heard his greeting arid the almost brutal laugh that followed 
 it ; and, added to this, she had caught a passing glimpse of 
 the curate's face. She dropped her work, and, before the 
 laugh had died oat, stood up confronting the loungers. 
 
 " If theer is a mon among yo' as he has harmed," she 
 said ; " if theer's one 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 him- 
 self. Probably he remembered the power he prided him- 
 self upon wielding over the weaker sex. He laid aside hia 
 pipe for a moment and tried sarcasm, an adaptation 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 sould 
 ha' had much agen him. I see one mon here as has a wife 
 as lay nigh death a month or so ago, an' it were the parson 
 as went to see her day after day, an' tuk her help and 
 
"TURNED METHOD F." 211 
 
 comfort. Theer's another mon here as had a little un to 
 dee, an' when it deed, it wur th' parson as knelt by its 
 bed an' held its hond an' talkt to it when it were feart 
 Theer's other men here as had help fro' him as they did 
 na know of, an' it wur help from a mon as wur na far 
 fro' a-bein' as poor an' hard worked i' his way as they are 
 i' theirs. Happen th' mon I speak on dunnot know much 
 about th' sick wife, 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 earned it. That wur why I 
 spoke. I ha' towdyo' th' truth o' th' little chap yo' jeered 
 at an' throw'd his words back to." 
 
 Thus it became among her companions a commonly 
 accepted belief that Joan Lowrie had turned " Methody." 
 They could find no other solution to her championship of 
 the parson. 
 
 " Is it true as tha's j'ined th' Methodys ? " Thwaite's wile 
 asked Joan, somewhat nervously. 
 
 She had learned to be fond of the girl, and did not like 
 the idea of believing 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' Maxeya 
 as I did na believe it when they browt th' tale to me. 
 They're powerful fond o' tale-bearing', that Maxey lot. ' 
 
 Joan stopped in her play with the child. 
 
 " They dunnot understand," she said, " that's aw. I ha 
 .earned to think different, an' believe i' things as I did na 
 
212 THAT LASS ff LI WRISTS. 
 
 use to believe in. Happen that's what they mean b> 
 talkin' o' th' Methodys." 
 
 People learned no more of the matter than this. They 
 felt that in some way Joan had separated herself from 
 their ranks, but they found it troublesome 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 than ever. What had at first been friend- 
 ship had gradually become affection. 
 
 " I think," Anice said to Grace, " that Joan must go 
 away from here and find a new life." 
 
 " That is the only way," he answered. " In this old one 
 there has been nothing 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 help her 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 eager where she was concerned. 
 All intercourse between them seemed to be at an end. 
 Without appearing to make an effort to do so, she kept out 
 of his path. Try as he might, he could not reach her. 
 At last it had come to this : he was no longer dallying 
 upon the brink of a great and dangerous passion, it had 
 overwhelmed him. 
 
 " One cannot even approach her," lie said again. 
 
 Anice regarded him with a shade of pity in her face. 
 
"TURNED METUODY." 213 
 
 " 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 in on her way from her work, before 
 going to Thwaite's, and had knelt down upon the hearth- 
 rug to warm herself. There had been no light in the 
 room but that of the fire, and its glow, falling upon her 
 face, had revealed to Anice something like haggardness. 
 
 " 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 her lap. 
 
 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 in appeal against her own despair. 
 
 " Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world ? Is 
 it allus to be this way wi' me ? Con I nivver reach no 
 higher, strive as I will, pray as I will, 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 theer mun be, an' then agen I've been 
 beset so sore that I ha' almost gi'en it up. 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 was more than visually dist nrbed to-day, 
 
214 THAT LASS O> LOWRIEPS. 
 
 He had for some time been working his way to an impor- 
 tant decision, fraught with some annoyance and anxiety 
 to himself. There was to be a meeting of the owners in 
 a few weeks, and at this meeting he had determined to 
 take a firm stand. 
 
 " The longer I remain in my present position, the more 
 fully I am convinced of the danger constantly threatening 
 us," he said to Anice. " I am convinced that the present 
 system of furnaces is the cause of more explosions 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 no 
 precautions are taken. There are poor fellows working 
 under me whose existence means bread to helpless women 
 and children. I hold their lives in trust, and if I arn not 
 allowed to place one frail barrier between them and sud- 
 den death, I will lead them into peril no longer, 1 will 
 resign my position. At least I can do that." 
 
 The men under him worked with a dull, heavy daring, 
 born of long use and a knowledge of their own helpless- 
 ness against their fate. There was not one among them 
 who did not know that in going down the shaft to his 
 labor, he might be leaving the light of day behind him 
 forever. But seeing the blue sky vanish from sight thus 
 during six days of fifty-two weeks in the year, engendered 
 a kind of hard indifference. Explosions had occurred, 
 and might occur again ; dead men had been carried up to 
 be stretched on the green earth, men crushed out of all 
 semblance to humanity ; some of themselves bore the 
 marks of terrible maiming ; but it was an old story, and 
 they had learned to face the same hazard recklessly. 
 
 With Fergus Derrick, however, it was a different mat- 
 ter. It was he who must lead these men into new fields 
 of danger 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FATE. 
 
 TB time came, before many days, when the last tie 
 that bound Joan to her present life was broken. Tho 
 little one, who from the first had clung 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 
 at home to nurse it, and one night, sitting with it upon 
 her knee in her accustomed place, she saw a change upon 
 the small face. 
 
 It had been moaning continuously, and suddenly the 
 plaintive sound ceased. Joan bent over it. She had been 
 holding the tiny hand as she always did, and at this mo- 
 ment the soft fingers closed upon one of her own quietly. 
 She was quite alone, and for an instant there was a deep 
 silence. After her first glance at the tiny creature, she 
 broke this silence herself. 
 
 " Little lass," she said in a whisper, " what ails thee ? 
 Is thy pain o'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 its breast and wept aloud. wept as she had 
 never wept before. Then she laid the child upon a pillow 
 and covered its face. Liz's last words returned to her 
 with a double force. It had not lived to forget or blame 
 her. Where was Liz to-night, at t\iis hour, when her 
 child was so safe ? 
 
21 6 THAT LASS 0' LOWBUF& 
 
 The next morning, on her way downstairs to the break 
 fast-room, Anice Barholm was met by a servant. 
 
 " The young woman from the mines would like to see 
 you, Miss," said the girl. 
 
 Anice found Joan awaiting her below. 
 
 " I ha' come to tell yo'," she said, " that th' little uc 
 deed at midneet. Theer wur no one I could ca' in. I sal 
 alone wi' it i' th' room aw th' neet, an' then I left it t 
 ome here." 
 
 Anice and Thwaite's wife returned home with her. 
 What little there was to be done, they remained to do. 
 But this was scarcely more than to watch with her until 
 the pretty baby face was hidden away from human sight. 
 
 When all was over, Joan became restless. The presence 
 of the child had saved her from utter desolation, and now 
 that it was gone, the emptiness of the house chilled her. 
 At the last, when her companions were about to leave 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 with them ; and now, when Mrs. Thwaito 
 returned to Riggan, Joan accompanied her, and the cot- 
 tage was locked up. 
 
 This alteration changed greatly the routine of her life. 
 There were children in the Tliwaite household half a 
 dozen of them who, having overcome their first awe or 
 her, had learned before the baby died to be fond of Joan. 
 Her handsome face attracted them when they ceased to 
 fear its novelty ; and the hard- worked mother said to her 
 neighbors : 
 
 " She's gotten a way wi' childer, somehow, that lass o 1 
 Lowrie's. Y)'d wonder if yo' could see her wi' 'em 
 She's inony a bit o' help to me." 
 
FATE. $11 
 
 But as time progressed, Anice Barholm noted the con 
 stant presence of that worn look upon bar face. Instead 
 of diminishing, it grew and deepened. Even Derrick, 
 who met her so rarely, saw it when he passed her in the 
 street. 
 
 " She is not ill, is she ? " he asked Anice once, ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 Anice shook her head. 
 
 " No, she is not ill." 
 
 " Then she has some trouble that nobody knows about," 
 he said. " What a splendid creature she is ! " impetu- 
 ously " 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 was his habit. 
 
 " Next week the crisis will come at the mines," he said. 
 " I wonder how it will end for me." 
 
 " You are still determined ? " said Auice. 
 
 "Yes, I am still determined. I wish it were over. 
 Perhaps there will be a Fate in it " his voice lowering 
 itself as he added this last sentence. 
 
 "A Fate?" said Anice. 
 
 " 1 am growing superstitious and fall of fancies," he 
 said. " I do not trust to myself, as I once did. I should 
 like Fate to bear the responsibility of my leaving Riggaa 
 or remaining in it." 
 
 " And if you leave it ? " asked Anice. 
 
 For an instant he paused in his walk, with an uncertain 
 air. But he shook this uncertainty off with a visible effort, 
 the next moment. 
 
 " If I leave it, I do not think I shall return, and Fate 
 have settled a long unsettled question for me." 
 
 "Don't leave it to Fate," said Anice in a low tone 
 10 
 
218 THAT LASS 0' LOWItltftf. 
 
 " Settle it for yourself. It does not it is not it 
 looks " 
 
 " It looks cowardly," he interrupted her. " So it does, 
 and so it is. God knows 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 seemed to strike him. 
 
 "Anice," he said, the dark flush rising afresh. "I 
 promised you that if the time should ever come when I 
 needed help that it was possible you might give, I should 
 not be afraid to ask you for it. I am coming to you for 
 help. Not now some day not far distant. That is why 
 I remind you of the compact." 
 
 " I did not need reminding," she said to him. 
 
 " I might have known that," he answered, " I think 1 
 did know it. But let us make the compact over again." 
 
 She held out her hand to him, and he took it eagerly. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIT. 
 
 THE DECISION. 
 
 THE owners of the Kiggan collieries held their meeting. 
 That a person in their employ should differ from them 
 boldly, and condemn their course openly, was an extraor- 
 dinary event ; that a young man in the outset of his ca- 
 reer should dare so much was unprecedented. It would 
 be a ruinous thing, they said among themselves, for so 
 young a man to lose so important a position on the very 
 threshold of his professional life, and they were convinced 
 that his knowledge of this would restrain him. But they 
 were astounded to find that it did not. 
 
 He brought his plans with him, and laid them before 
 them. They were plans for the abolition of old and dan- 
 gerous arrangements, for the amelioration of the condition 
 of the men who labored at the hourly risk of their lives, 
 and for rendering this labor easier. Especially, there were 
 plans for a newer system of ventilation proposing the 
 substitution of fans for the long-used furnace. One or 
 two of the younger men leaned toward their adoption. 
 But the men with the greatest influence were older, and 
 lees prone to the encouragement of novelty. 
 
 " It's all nonsense," said one. " Furnaces have been 
 used ever since the mines were opened, and as to the rest 
 it arises, I suppose, from the complaints of the men. 
 They always will complain they always did." 
 
 " So far they have had reason for complaint," remarked 
 Derrick. ** As you say, there have been furnaces ever 
 
220 THAT LASS O> LOWRISTS. 
 
 since there have been mines, and there have also been ex- 
 plosions which may in many cases be attributed to them 
 There was an explosion at Browton a month ago which 
 was to some extent a mystery, but there were, old miners 
 who understood it well enough. The return air, loaded 
 with gas, had ignited at the furnace, and the result was 
 that forty dead and wounded men were carried up the 
 shaft, to be recognized, when they were recognizable, by 
 mothers, and wives, and children, who depended upon 
 them for their scant food." 
 
 Derrick argued his cause well and with spirit, keeping 
 a tight rein upon himself ; but when, having exhausted 
 his arguments, he found that he had not advanced his 
 cause, and that it was a settled matter that he should not, 
 he took fire. 
 
 " Then, gentlemen," he said, " I have but one resource. 
 I will hold no human life lightly in my hands. I have 
 the honor to tender you my resignation." 
 
 There was a dead silence for a moment or so. They 
 had certainly not expected such a result as this. A well- 
 disposed young man, who sat near to Derrick, spoke to 
 him in a rapid undertone. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he said, " it will be the ruin of you. 
 For my part, I admire 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 am neither the one nor the 
 other. It is not enthusiasm which moves me, it is a 
 familiarity with stern realities." 
 
 When he left the room his fate had been decided. At 
 the end of the week he would have no further occupation 
 in Riggan. He had only two more days' work before him 
 
THE DECISION. 221 
 
 and he had gained the unenviable rep nation of beinj; 
 lire-aud-tow young fellow, who was f^ghty enough *>. 
 make a martyr of himself. 
 
 Under the first street-lamp he met Gr& \v } who was e\ "' 
 dently making his way home. 
 
 " I will go with you," he said, taking his \rm. 
 
 Once within the walls of the pleasant jviti? room, h 
 found it easy to unbosom himself. He desci vsc 1 Us inter- 
 view with his employers, and its termination. 
 
 " A few months ago, I flattered myself that ttij pro?v: > <iH 
 were improving," he said ; " but now it geenit> iha^ I 
 must begin again, which is not an easy matter, by the 
 way." 
 
 By the time he ended be found his temporary extlte- 
 ment abating somewhat, but still his mood was by no 
 means undisturbed. 
 
 It was after they had finished tea and the arm-chairs ha< 
 been drawn to the fire that Grace himself made a revela 
 tion. 
 
 " When, you met me to-night, I was returning from a 
 visit I had paid to Joan Lowrie." 
 
 " At Thwaite's ? " said Derrick. 
 
 " At Thwaite's. She the fact is I went on business 
 she has determined to 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 been able 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 
 
222 THAT LASS C? LO WRIE'S. 
 
 replied. " She said it was no woman's work and she wai 
 tired of it." 
 
 " She is not the woman to do anything without a 
 motive," mused Derrick. 
 
 " No," returned the curate. 
 
 A inDment later, as if by one impulse, their eyes met. 
 Grace started as if he had been stung. Derrick simply 
 flushed. 
 
 "What is it? "he asked. 
 
 " I I do not think I understand," Grace faltered. 
 " Surely I am blundering." 
 
 " No," said Derrick, gloomily. " You cannot blunder 
 since you know the truth. You did not fancy that my 
 feeling was so trivial that I could have conquered it so 
 soon 1 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 was the 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 when you spoke to me of your trouble some 
 months ago, I have misunderstood you. If the obstacles 
 you meant were the obstacles you would find in the path 
 of such a love, I have misunderstood you. If you did not 
 mean that your heart had been stirred by a feeling your 
 generous friendship caused you to regard as unjust to 7/10, 
 I have misunderstood you miserably." 
 
 " My dear fellow ! " Derrick exclaimed, with some emo- 
 tion. " My dear fellow, do you mean to tell me that you 
 imagined I referred to Miss Barhclm ?" 
 
THE DECISION. 223 
 
 " I was sure of it," was Grace's agitated reply. " As 1 
 said before, T have 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 had won. It had never been mine. It was 
 a mistake," he added, endeavoring to steady 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 few words," he said, with a deliberateness pain- 
 ful in its suggestion of an intense effort at self-control. 
 " Grace, what would you think of a man who found himself 
 setting reason at defiance, and in spite of all obstacles con- 
 fronting the possibility of loving and marrying if she 
 can be won such a woman as Joan Lowrie ? " 
 
 "You are putting me in a difficult position," Paul 
 answered. " If he would 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. 1 
 have so defied the world, in spite of myself at first, I 
 must confess. / have confronted the possibility of loving 
 Joan Lowrie until I do love her. So there the case 
 stands." 
 
 Gradually there dawned upon the curate's mind certain 
 remembrances connected with Joan. Now and then she 
 had puzzled and startled him, but here, 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 she was a year ago." 
 
224 THAI' LA88 0' LOWRIBTS. 
 
 "Are you," hesitatingly, "are you quite 8 are 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. 
 
 u I asked if you. were sure of that," answered Grace, 
 coloring. " 1 am not." 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 IN THE PIT. 
 
 TEE nex'o morning Derrick went down to the icine ae 
 nsual. The^e were several things he wished to do in 
 these last two days. He had heard that the managers had 
 entered into negotiations with a new engineer, and he 
 wished 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 more hopeful, and less inclined 
 to view matters darkly. 
 
 He remembered afterward that, as he stepped into the 
 cage, he turned to look at the unpicturesque little town, 
 brightened by the winter's sun ; and that, as he went 
 down, he glanced up at the sky and marked how intense 
 appeared the bit of blue, which was framed in by the 
 mouth of the shaft. 
 
 Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting 
 the rumor of what he had said and done had been bruited 
 about. Some collier had heard it and had told it to his 
 comrades, and so it had gone from one to the other. It had 
 been talked over at the evening and morning meal in 
 divers cottages, and many an anxious woman had warmed 
 'nto praise of the man who had " had a thowt for th' men." 
 
 In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of 
 men awaiting him, a group of burly miners with picke 
 and shovels over their shoulders, and the head of this 
 deputation, a spokesman burlier and generally gruffer 
 
 than the rest, stopped him. 
 10* 
 
226 THAT LASS 0' LOWR1&.S. 
 
 "Master," 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 as possible, 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 fain to say it. Are na we, mates I " 
 
 " Ay, we are, lad," in chorus. 
 
 " It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap 
 as towd some on us last neet, as yo'd getten th' sack fro' 
 th' managers or leastways as yo'd turned th' tables on 
 'em an' gi'en them th' sack yo'rsen. An' we'n heerd as it 
 begun wi' yo're standin' up fur us chaps axin fur things 
 as 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 U8 an' stood to what yo' thowt war th' reot 
 thing, an' we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd heerd it 
 an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanks i' 
 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 to shake hands wi' him." 
 
 It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. 
 They crowded about their champion, thrusting grimy 
 paws into his hand, grasping it almost enthusiastically. 
 
 " Good luck to yo', lad ! " said one. " We'n noan 
 smooth soart o' chaps, but we'n stand by what's fair an' 
 plucky. We shall ha' a good word fur thee when tha 
 hast made thy flittin'." 
 
 " I'm glad of that lads," responded Derrick, heartily, by 
 
227 
 
 no means unmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the 
 scene. " I only wish I had had better luck, that's all." 
 
 A few hours later the whole of the little town wag 
 shaken to its very foundations, by something like an 
 earthquake, accompanied by an ominous, booming sound 
 which brought people flocking out of their houses, with 
 white faces. Some of them had heard it before all 
 knew what it meant. From the colliers' cottages poured 
 forth women, shrieking and wailing, women who bore 
 children in their arms and had older ones dragging at 
 their skirts, and who made their desperate way to the pit 
 with one accord. From houses and workshops there 
 rushed mon, who, coming out in twos and threes joined 
 each other, and, forming a breathless crowd, ran through 
 the streets scarcely daring to speak a word and all ran 
 toward the pit. 
 
 There were scores at its mouth in five minutes ; in ten 
 minutes there were hundreds, and above all the clamor 
 rose the cry of women : 
 
 " My Mester's down ! " 
 
 " An' mine ! " 
 
 "An' mine!" 
 
 u Four lads o' mine is down ! " 
 
 " Three o' mine ! " 
 
 " My little un's theer th' youngest nobbut ten year 
 owd nobbut ten year owd, poor little chap ! an' ony been 
 at work a week 1 " 
 
 "Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw' God ha' 
 mercy 1 " And then more shrieks and wails in which the 
 terror-stricken children joined. 
 
 It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dy- 
 ino- in the noisome darkness below, God only knew ! Ho\f 
 
228 THAT LASS O 1 LO WRISTS. 
 
 many lay mangled and crushed, waiting for their deatl^ 
 Heaven only could tell ! 
 
 In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight 
 figure in clerical garb made its way through the crowd with 
 an air of excited determination , 
 
 " Th' parson's fear./' was the general comment. 
 
 "My men," he said, raising his voice so that all could 
 hear, u can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus 
 Derrick?" 
 
 There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a 
 collier who stood near. 
 
 " I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago," he said, " I wur 
 th' last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. 
 Derrick wur wi' his men i' th' new part o' th' mine. 1 
 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 that very moment. He stepped a little farther 
 forward. 
 
 " Unfortunately for myself, at present," he said, " I 
 have no practical knowledge of the nature of these acci- 
 dents. Will some of you tell me how long it will be before 
 we can make our first effort to rescue the men who are 
 below?" 
 
 Did he mean to volunteer this young whipper-snapper 
 of a parson ? And if he did, could he know what he was 
 doing? 
 
 "I ask you,' he said, "because I wish to offer myself 
 as a volunteer at once ; I think I am stronger than you 
 imagine and at least my heart will be in the work. I 
 have a friend below, myself," his voice altering its tone 
 arul losing its firmness, " a friend who is worthy tbe sacri 
 
IN THE PIT. 229 
 
 fice of ten such _ives as mine if such a sacrifice could save 
 him." 
 
 One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up. 
 Under an hour it would 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 be turned to the best account. In that time 
 much could be thought of and done which would assist 
 themselves and benefit the sufferers. He called upon the 
 strongest and most experienced, and almost without their 
 recognizing the prominence of his position, led them on in 
 the work. He even rallied the weeping women and gave 
 them something to do. One was sent for this necessary 
 article and another for that. A couple of boys were dis- 
 patched to the next village for extra medical assistance, 
 so that there need be no lack of attention when it was 
 required. He took off his broadcloth and worked with 
 the rest of them until all the necessary preparations were 
 made and it was considered possible to descend into the 
 mine. 
 
 When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft 
 and took his place quietly. 
 
 It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death 
 would stare them in the face all through its performance. 
 There was choking after-damp below, noxious vapors, 
 to breathe which was to die ; there was the chance of 
 crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries and 
 yet these men left their companions one by one and ranged 
 themselves, without saying a word, at the curate's side. 
 
 " My friends," said Grace, baring his head, and rais 
 ing a feminine hand. " My friends, we will say a short 
 prayer." 
 
230 THAT LASS V LOWRI&8. 
 
 It was only a few words. Then the curate spoke again. 
 
 " Keady ! " he said. 
 
 But just at that moment there stepped out from the 
 anguished crowd a givl, whose face was set and deathly, 
 though there was no touch of fear upon 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 to look at her as she stood apart from them, 
 a desperate appeal in the very quiet of her gesture as 
 she turned to look about her for some one to speak." 
 
 " Lasses," she said again. " Some on yo' speak a word 
 fur Joan Lowrie 1 " 
 
 There rose a murmur among them then, and the next 
 instant this murmur was a cry. 
 
 " Ay," they answered, " we con aw speak fur yo'. Let 
 her go, lads ! She's worth two o' th' best on yo'. Kowt 
 fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie 1 
 Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee ! " 
 
 But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of 
 them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a peril- 
 ous undertaking the coarser element 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 on the shoulder. 
 
 " We cannot think of it," he said. " It is very brave 
 ar.d generous, and God bless you! but it cannot be. I 
 could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest would." 
 
 " Parson," said Joan coolly, but not roughly, " tha'd ha 
 hard work to help thysen, if BO be as th' lads wiu 
 willin"' 
 
IN THE PIT. 231 
 
 " But," he pretested, " it may be death. 1 could not 
 hear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot 
 let you risk your life." 
 
 She turned to the volunteers. 
 
 " Lads," she cried, passionately, " Yo' munnot turn me 
 .lack. I sin I mun tell yo' " and she faced them like 
 a queen, " theer's a mon down theer 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 half turned her face away. But when those 
 above began to lower them, and they found themselves 
 swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of 
 death, she spoke to him. 
 
 " Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray," she said. 
 " Pray that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' 
 done our work." 
 
 It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to 
 do in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, 
 quickest, most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in 
 her wake, found himself obeying her slightest word or gest- 
 ure. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, 
 had guessed the truth. He knew that they were both en- 
 gaged in the* same quest. When at last they had worked 
 their way lifting, helping, comforting to the end of the 
 passage where the collier had said he last saw the master 
 then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, 
 witli a thrill of pity, touched her to attract her atten 
 tiou. 
 
 " Let me go first," he said. 
 
232 THAT LASS 0' LOWRISTR 
 
 " Nay," she answered, " we'n go together.'* 
 
 The gallery was a long and low one, and had been ter 
 ribly shaken. In some places the props had been torn 
 away, in others they were borne down by the loosened 
 blocks of coal. The dim light of the "Davy" Joan 
 held up showed such a wreck that Grace spoke to hoi 
 again. 
 
 " You must let me go first," he said, with gentle firmness. 
 " If one of these blocks should fall " 
 
 Joan interrupted him, 
 
 " If one on 'em should fall I'm th' one as it had better 
 tall on. There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. 
 Yo' ha' work o' yore own to do." 
 
 She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, 
 and he could only follow her. She went before, holding 
 the Davy high, so that its light might be thrown as far 
 forward as possible. Now and then she was forced tc 
 stoop to make her way around a bending prop ; sometimes 
 there was a fallen mass to be surmounted, but she was at 
 the front still when they reached the other end without 
 finding the object of their search. 
 
 '' It he is na there," she said. " Let us try th' next pas- 
 sage," and she turned into it. 
 
 It was she who first came upon what they were looking 
 for ; but they did not find it in the next passage, or the 
 next, or even the next. It was farther away from the scene 
 of the explosion than they had dared to hope. As they 
 entered a narrow side gallery. Grace heard her utter a 
 low sound, 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 
 
IN THE PIT. 233 
 
 face with closed eyes, and blood upon it. ( l-raee knelt 
 flown too, his heart aching with dread. 
 
 " Is he " he began, but could not finish. 
 
 Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motion 
 less breast and waited almost a minute, and then she 
 ifted her own face, white as the wounded 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 it upon her bosom, holding it close as a 
 mother might hold the head of her child. 
 
 " 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 gone weak 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 of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded 
 and dazzled by the golden winter'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 blankets prepared for him, and then she turned to the 
 doctor who had hurried to the spot to see what could be 
 done. 
 
 " He is na dead," she said. " Lay yore 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 pause between the two last words. " If some of 
 you will help me to put him on a stretcher, he may be 
 carried home, and I will go with him. There is just a 
 chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have im mediate 
 attention. Where does he live ? " 
 
THAT LASS 0' LOWRI&S. 
 
 " He must go with me," said Grace. " He is my 
 friend." 
 
 So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and 
 watched them carry him away, watched the bearers 
 until they were out of sight, and then turned again and 
 oiived the women in their work among the sufferer* 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ALIVE YET. 
 
 br the bedroom above the small parlor a fire waa burn 
 ing at midnight, and by this fire Grace was wa toning 
 '1 he lamp was turned low and the room was very quiet ; 
 a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound. When a 
 mo.n or a movement of the patient broke the stillness 
 which was only at rare intervals the curate rose and 
 went to the bedside. But it was only to look at the suf- 
 ferer lying upon it, bandaged and unconscious. There 
 was very little he could do. He could follow the instruc- 
 tions given by the medical man before he went away, 
 but these had been 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. Close attention 
 and unremitting care might rescue him, and to the best of 
 his ability the curate meant to give him both. But he 
 could not help feeling a deep anxiety. His faith in his 
 own skill was not very great, and there were no professional 
 nurses in Riggan. 
 
 " It is the care women give that he needs," he said once, 
 Btanding near the pillow and speaking to himself. " Men 
 cannot do these things well. A rr other or a sister might 
 gave him." 
 
 He went to the window and drew back the curtain to 
 lock out upon the night. As he did so, he saw the figure 
 of a woman nearing the house. As she approached, she 
 began to walk more slowly, and when she reached tb 
 
236 THAT LASS O> LOWRIE'S. 
 
 gate she hesitated, stopped and looked up. . In a moment 
 it became evident that she saw him, and was conscious 
 that he saw her. The dim light in the chamber threw his 
 form into strong relief. She raised her hand and made a 
 gesture. He turned away from the window, left the room 
 quietly, and went down-stairs. She had not moved, but 
 stood at the gate awaiting him. She spoke to him in a 
 low tone, and he distinguished in its sound a Jegree oJ 
 physical exhaustion. 
 
 " Yo' saw me," she said. " I thowt yo' did though i 
 did na think o' yo' bein' at th' winder when I utopped 
 to to see th' leet." 
 
 " I am glad I saw you," said Grace. " You have been 
 at work among the men who were hurt ? " 
 
 " Ay," pulling at a bush of evergreen nervously, and 
 scattering the leaves as she spoke. "Theer's scarce a 
 house o' th' common soart i' Riggan as has na trouble in it, n 
 
 " 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' explo- 
 sion. She wur in th' village when it happent, an' she 
 drove to th' pit. She's been workin' as hard as ony woman 
 i' Riggan. She saw us go down th' mine, but she did not 
 see us come up. She wur away then wi' a woman as had 
 a lad to 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 coorn up theer wui 
 women as screamed an' held to her, an' thro wed theirseua 
 on their knees an' hid their faces i' her dress, an' i' her 
 honds, as if they thowt she could keep th' truth fro' 'em." 
 
 Grace trembled in his excitement. 
 
 " God bless her 1 God bless her 1 " he said, again and 
 again. 
 
ALIVE YET. 237 
 
 " Where is she now ? " he asked at length, 
 
 " Theer wur a little chap as come up i' the last cagef ul 
 he wur hurt bad, 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 heerd an' 
 wen.* to him, an' knelt down an' quieted him a bit. Th' 
 poor little lad 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 on her lap while th' doctor did 
 what rnun be done. An' so she went, an' she's wi' hiiH 
 now. He will na live till day-leet, an' he keeps crying 
 out 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 tremb- 
 ling, " I could na ax yo' what I've made up my moind to ; 
 but I'm noan a lady, an' it does na matter. If yo' need 
 some one to help yo' wi' him, will yo' let me ha' th' place 1 
 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, Joau 
 following him. When they entered the room they went 
 U the bedside. 
 
 The injured man lay motionless. 
 
 " Is theer loif e i' him yet ? " asked Joan. " He looks 
 Bf> if theer might na be." 
 
 " There is life in him," Grace answered ; " and he hiut 
 been a strong man, so I think we may feel *ome hope* 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 WATCHING AND WAITING. 
 
 THE next morning the pony-carriage stopped before tne 
 d-torof the curate's lodgings. When Grace went down- 
 stairs to the parlor, Anice Barholm turned from the win- 
 dow to greet him. The appearance of physical exhaus- 
 tion he had observed the night before in Joan Lowrie, ho 
 saw again in her, but he had never before seen the face 
 which Anice turned toward him. 
 
 " I was on the ground yesterday, and saw you go down 
 into the mine," she said. " I had never thought of such 
 courage before." 
 
 That was all, but in a second he comprehended that 
 this morning they stood 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 be better if th' tonne 
 ivver comes." 
 
 The rector and Mrs. Barholm, hearing of the accident, 
 and leaving Browton hurriedly to return home, were met 
 by half a dozen different versions on their way to Riggan, 
 and each one was so enthusiastically related that Mr. Bar 
 
WATCHING AND WAITING. 339 
 
 holm's rather dampened interest in his daughter s protege 
 was fanned again into a brisk flame. 
 
 "There must be something in the girl, after all," ho 
 said, " if one could only get at it. Something ought to be 
 done for her, really." 
 
 Hearing of Grace's share in the transaction, he waa 
 simply amazed. 
 
 " 1 think there must be some mistake," he said to his wife. 
 " Grace is not the man not the man physically," straight- 
 ening his broad shoulders, " to be equal to such a thing." 
 L'ut the truth of the report forced itself upon him after 
 hearing the story repeated several times before they 
 reached Riggan, and arriving at home they heard the 
 whole story from Anice. 
 
 While Anice was talking, Mr. Barholm began to pace 
 the floor of the room restlessly. 
 
 "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 right thing. " I should scarcely have 
 expected such dashing heroism from you, Grace." 
 
 " I hardly regarded it in that light," said the little gen- 
 tleman, coloring sensitively. " If I had, I should scarcely 
 have expected it of myself." 
 
 The fact that Joan Lowrie had engaged herself as mirse 
 to the injured engineer made some gossip among her 
 acquaintances at first, but this soon died out. Thwaite'a 
 wife had a practical enough explanation of the case. 
 
 "Th 5 lass wur tired o' pit-work ; an' no wonder. She's 
 maae up her moind to ha' done wi' it ; an' she's a first-rate 
 one to \mrse, strong i' the. arms, an 1 noan sleepy-headed 
 
24<]i THAT LASS CP LOWRI&8. 
 
 Happen she'll tak' up wi' it fu; a trade. As to it bein 
 him as she meant when she said theer wur a mon as she 
 meant 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 noan o' our business who tho 
 aion wur. Happen he's dead ; an' whether he's dead or 
 alive, you'd better leave him a-be, an' her too." 
 
 In the sick man's room the time passed monotonously 
 There were days and nights of heavy slumber or uncon- 
 sciousness, restless mutterings and weary tossings to and 
 fro. The face upon the pillow was sometimes white, 
 sometimes flushed with fever ; but whatever change came 
 to pass, Death never 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 spent much of their 
 time in the house. He would barely consent to snatch a 
 few minutes' rest in the day-time; in truth, he could not 
 have slept if he would. Joan held to her post unflinch- 
 ingly. She took even less respite than Grace. Having 
 almost forced her to leave the room one morning, Anice 
 went down-stairs to find her lying upon the sofa, her 
 hands clasped under her head, her eyes wide open. 
 
 " I conna sleep yet a while," she said. " Dunnot let 
 it trouole yo'. I'm used to it." 
 
 Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow 
 eyes following her as she moved about the room, and fixed 
 hungrily upon her when she stood near him. 
 
 " Who are you ? " he would say. " I have seen you 
 before, and I know your face ; but but I have lost your 
 name. Who are you \ " 
 
 One r.ight, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the 
 room, Grace having gone down stairs for something, 
 
WATCHING AND WAITING. %\ 
 
 she ivas startled by the sound of Derrick'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, 
 
 the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and 
 he had wandered off again into low, disjointed murmur- 
 ings. 
 
 It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he 
 spoke. There was something he must do or say, some de- 
 cision he must reach. Must he give 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 reason- 
 ing and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few min- 
 utes. Give him just an hour of rest. He was full of 
 pain ; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after 
 a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary 
 round once more. 
 
 " He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late, 
 too much responsibility," said the medical man; "and it 
 is gving rather against him." 
 
 11 
 
CHAPTER XXXYIII. 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 THE turning-point was reached at last. One evening, 
 at the close of his usual visit, the doctor said to Grace : 
 
 " To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. 
 I should not be surprised to find on my next visit that hia 
 mind had become permanently cleared. The intervals of 
 half consciousness have become lengthened. Unless some 
 entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that the 
 worst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't 
 let the young woman leave the room." 
 
 That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange 
 experience through which these two passed together. If 
 Anice had not known the truth before, she would have 
 learned it then. Again and again Derrick went the end- 
 less round of his miseries. How must it end ? How 
 could it end ? What must he do ? How black and nar- 
 row 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 held fast by the mass which had fallen upon 
 him. What must he do about her whom he loved, and 
 who was separated from him by this horrible wall ? He 
 was dying, and she would never know what he wanted to 
 tell her. What was it that he wanted to say, That ho 
 loved her, loved her, loved her ! Could she hear him 1 
 He must make her hear him before he died, " Joan 
 Joan 1 " 
 
RECOGNITION. 243 
 
 Thus he raved hour after hour ; and the two sat and 
 listened, often in dead silence ; but at last there rose ir. 
 Joan Lowrie's face a look of such intense and hopeless 
 pain, that Anice spoke. 
 
 " Joan ! ray 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 he knows. 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 onj 
 place wheer he is con be no place fur me ? I thowt I 
 thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, but it 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 can- 
 not let you call it that." 
 
 " It would na be nowt else. Am 7 fit wife fur a gen- 
 tlemon 1 Nay, my work's done when the danger's ower. 
 If he wakes to know th' leet o' day to-morrow morning, 
 it's done then." 
 
 " You do not mean," said Anice, " that you will leave 
 us?" 
 
 " I conna stay i' Eiggan ; I mun go away." 
 
 Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He mut- 
 tered less and less until his voice died away altogether, 
 and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace, coming in 
 and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of 
 intense relief. 
 
 " The worst is over," he said ; " now we may hope f 01 
 the best." 
 
 " Ay," Joan answered, quietly, " th' worst is ower f ui 
 
 him." 
 
244 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and 
 then the gray sky showed long slender streaks of wintry 
 red, gradually widening and deepening until all the east 
 seemed flushed. 
 
 " It's mornin'," said Joan, turning from the window to 
 tLe bed. " I mi-n gi' him th' drops again." 
 
 She was standing near the pillow when the first flood 
 of the sunlight poured in at the window. At this moment 
 Derrick awoke from his sleep to a full recognition of all 
 around him. But the strength of his delirium had died 
 out ; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he 
 had no power to speak and could only look up at the pale 
 face hopelessly. It seemed as if the golden glow of the 
 morning light transfigured it. 
 
 " He's awake," Joan said, moving away and speaking 
 to those on the other side of the room. " Will one on yo' 
 pour out th' medicine ? My hand's noan steady." 
 
 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 the bedroom door closed. Both of them heard 
 it. A shadow fell upon the sick .man's face. His eyes 
 met his friend's with a question in them, and the next in- 
 stant the question put itself into words : 
 
 " Who went out ?. " 
 
 Grace bent lower. 
 
 " It was Joan Lowrie." 
 
 lie 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. 
 
 u How 'he said next" how long 3 " 
 
RECOGNITION. 245 
 
 " 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 onc 
 oaore and he lay silent 
 
CHAPTEK XXXIX. 
 
 A TESTIMONIAL. 
 
 JOAN went back to her lodgings at the Thwaites' and 
 left Mrs. Barholm and Anice to fill her place. 
 
 Too prostrate to question his nurses, Derrick could only 
 lie with closed eyes helpless and weary. He could not 
 even keep himself awake long enough to work his way to 
 any very clear memories of what had happened. He had so 
 many half recollections to tantalize him. He could re- 
 member his last definite sensation, a terrible shock fling 
 ing him to the ground, a second of pain and horror, and 
 then utter oblivion. Had he awakened one night and seen 
 Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and called out to her, 
 and then lost himself ? Had he awakened for a second or 
 so again and seen her standing close to his pillow, looking 
 dwwn at him with an agony of dread in her face ? 
 
 In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she 
 had been with him from the first. How had it happened ? 
 This he asked himself again and again, until he grew 
 feverish over it. 
 
 " Above all things," he heard the doctor say, " don't let 
 him talk and don't talk to him." 
 
 But Grace comprehended something of his mental con- 
 dition. 
 
 " I see by your look that you wish to question me," ho 
 said to him. " Have patience for a few days and then I 
 will answer every question you may ask. Try to rest 
 upon that assurance." 
 
A TESTIMONIAL. 247 
 
 There was one question, however, which would not 
 wait. G race saw it lying in the eager eyes and answered 
 it. 
 
 "Joan Lowrie," he said, " has gone home." 
 
 Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. 
 The clv.ldren crowded about her, neighbors dropped in, 
 both men and women wanting to have a word with her. 
 There were few of them who had not met with some loss 
 by the explosion, and there were those among them who 
 had cause to remember 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 yore knee when yo' 
 come up i' th' cage ? " asked one woman. 
 
 Mrs. Thwaite answered for her witli some sharpness. 
 They should not gossip 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' yore 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 told its own story; "but that wimnot bring 
 my rnester back." 
 
 " Nay," said another, " nor my two lads." 
 
 There had been a great deal of muttered discontent 
 among the colliers before the accident, and since its occur-, 
 rcnce there had been signs of open rebellion. Then, too, 
 
248 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRI&8. 
 
 results had proved that the seasonable adoption of Derrick's 
 plan would have saved acme lives at least, and, in fact, 
 Borne future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, 
 felt aomewhat remorseful ; a few, it is not impossible, ex- 
 perienced nothing more serious than annoyance and 
 embarrassment, but it is certain that there were one or two 
 who were crushed by a sense of personal responsibility '.f 01 
 what had occurred. 
 
 It was one of these who made the proposition that Dec 
 rick's plan be accepted unreservedly, and that the engineei 
 himself should be requested to resume his position and 
 undertake the management of the work. There was some 
 slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recent 
 that its effect had not had time to wear away, and finally 
 the agreement was made. 
 
 But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bed- 
 room over the parlor, and the deputation from the company 
 could only wait upon Grace, and make an effort at express- 
 ing their sympathy. 
 
 After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. 
 There .was some curiosity felt concerning her. A young 
 and handsome woman, who had taken so remarkable a 
 part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object of interest. 
 
 Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that 
 something really ought to be done, that a visit to the hero- 
 ine of the day was the immediate result. There was only 
 one form the appreciation of a higher for a lower social 
 grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who had been, 
 naturally, selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan 
 the nature of the visit. His friends of the Company had 
 heard the story of her remarkable heroism, and had felt 
 that something waa due to her some token of the admira- 
 tion her conduct had inspired iu them. They had agreed 
 
A TESTIMONIAL. 249 
 
 that something ought to be done, and they had called this 
 evening to 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 the testimonial in 
 question rose, she made a step forward. There was more 
 of her old self in her gesture than she had shown for 
 months. Her eyes flashed, 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 tab 7 e, aa 
 if he were anxious to be rid of it. He was in a g.<< -w of 
 anger and shame at the false step they 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 it an' welcome." 
 
CHAPTEK XL. 
 
 GOING SOUTH. 
 
 T'<E first day Fergus Derrick was allowed to spend an 
 hoar in an easy- chair by the fire, he heard the story of hit 
 rescue from the lips of his friend, listening to it as lib 
 rested against the propping cushions. 
 
 " Don't be afraid of exciting me," he had said to Grace. 
 " I have conjectured until I am tired of it. Tell me the 
 whole story. Let me hear the end now." 
 
 Derrick's breath came quick and short as he listened, 
 and his haggard face flushed. It was not only to his 
 friend he owed his life, but to Joan Lowrie. 
 
 " I should like to see her," he said when Grace had fin- 
 ished. " As for you, Grace well words are poor 
 things." 
 
 " They are very poor things between friends," was 
 Grace's answer ; " so let us have none of them. You are 
 on this side of the grave, dear fellow that is enough." 
 
 During the rest of the day Derrick was silent and 
 abstracted, but plainly full of active thought. By night- 
 fall a feverish spot burned upon his cheek, and his pulse 
 had quickened 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, thinking of Joan also, when there came toher the 
 sound of footsteps in the passage and then a summons to 
 the door. 
 
 " You may come in," she said. 
 
GOING SOUTH. 251 
 
 But it was not a servant, as she had supposed ; it wag 
 Joan, with a bundle upon her arm. 
 
 " You arc going away, Joan ? " she said. " To-night ? " 
 " Ay," Joan answered, as she came and stood upon the 
 hearth, "I'm goin* awa v toneet ' 
 
 " You have quite made up your mmd ? " 
 " Ay," said Joan. " I.mun break loose. I want to get 
 as far fro' th' owd life 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' town by 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-bye to him. 
 I coom partly to ax yo' to say it fur me." 
 
 " Yes, I will say it. I wish there were no need that I 
 should, though. I wish 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 to happen so as she'd drift back here agen 
 while I wur away as yo'd say a kind word to her, an' tell 
 her about th' choild, an' how as I nivver thowt 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 after a while. " They say as th' south is as differ- 
 ent fro' tli' north as th' day is fro' the neet. I ha' money 
 enow tc help me on an when I stop I shall look fur 
 work." 
 
 Anice's face lighted up suddenly. 
 
 " To the south! " she said. " Why did I not think of 
 that before. If you go toward the south, there is Ashley- 
 Wold and grandmamma, Mrs. Galloway. I will write to 
 aer now, if you will let me," rising to her feet. 
 
252 THAT LASS Of LO WRIE'S. 
 
 "If yo'll gi'me th' letter, I'll tak' it an' thank yo'," Baid 
 Joan. "If she 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 in this case until Joan'i 
 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 wur better." 
 
 She spoke questioningly, and Anice answered her 
 
 u Yes, he is out of danger. Joan, what am I to aay to 
 him?" 
 
 " To say to him ! " 
 
 She started slightly, but ended with a strained quiet 
 ness of manner. 
 
 " Theer's nowt to say," she added, rising, and prepar 
 ing to go. 
 
 Anice rose also. She held out both her hands, and 
 loan took them. 
 
 " I will go down-stairs with you," said Anice ; and they 
 went out together. 
 
 When they reached the front door, they kissed each 
 other, and Anice stood in the lighted hall and watched 
 the girl's departure. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " she said ; " and God bless you ! " 
 
 Early in the morning, Derrick called his friend to hif 
 bedside. 
 
 " I have had a bad night," he said to him. 
 
 "Yes/' Grace answered. "It is easy enough to see 
 that" 
 
GOING SOOTH. 253 
 
 There was an unnatural sparkle in the hollow eyes, and 
 the flush upon the cheek had not faded away. 
 
 Derrick tried to laugh, and moved restlessly upon hia 
 pillow. 
 
 " So I should imagine," said he. " The fact is well 
 you see I have been thinking." 
 
 " About " 
 
 " Yes yes Grace, I cannot wait I must hear some- 
 thing. A hundred things might happen. I must at least 
 be sure she is not far away. I shall never regain strength 
 as long as I have not the rest that knowledge will bring 
 me. 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 and touched him. 
 
 Stay " he said. 
 
 Grace turned to him again. 
 
 " You know " in the old resolute way " you know 
 what I mean the end to be, if it may be ? " 
 
 " I think I do." 
 
 Grace appeared at the rectory very soon afterward, and 
 asked for Miss Barholm. Anice came down into the par- 
 lor -to meet him at once. She could not help guessing 
 that foi some reason or other he had come to speak of 
 Joan, and his first words confirmed her impression. 
 
 " I have just left the Thwaites'," he said. " I went there 
 to see Joan Lowrie, and find that she is not there. Mrs. 
 Thwaite told me that she had left Riggan. Is that true? " 
 
 u Yes. She went away last night. She came here to 
 bid me good-bye, and leave a farewell message for you." 
 
254 THAT LASS O 1 LOWRIE'b. 
 
 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 
 bieak away entirely from the past. She has gone to try 
 if it is possible to do it. She wants another life alto 
 gether." 
 
 " I do not know what I must do," said Grace. "You 
 say she has gone away, and I I came to her from Der- 
 rick." 
 
 " From Mr. Derrick ! " Anice exclaimed ; and then 
 both relapsed into silence. 
 
 It was Anice who spoke first. 
 
 " Mamma was going to send some things to Mr. Dei rick 
 this morning," she said. " I will have the basket packed 
 and take it myself. If you will let me, I will go with 
 you as soon as I can have the things prepared." 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 "A SOAET O 5 POLLTGT." 
 
 THE interview between Anice and Derrick was a long 
 one. At the end Derrick said : 
 
 " I shall go to Ashley-Wold." 
 
 Grace had been called out almost immediately after his 
 return to the house ; but on his way home he met Anice, 
 and having something to say about the school, he turned 
 toward the rectory with her. 
 
 They had not gone far, however, before they were 
 joined by a third party, Mr. Sammy Craddock, who was 
 wending his way Crown ward. Seeing them, Mr. Crad- 
 dock hesitated for a moment, as if feeling somewhat 
 doubtful ; but as they approached him, he pulled off his 
 hat. 
 
 " I dunnot know," he said, " after aw, if it would not 
 be as well to ha' a witness. Hope yo're nicely, Miss," 
 affably ; " an' tli' same to yo', Parson. Would yo '," 
 clearing his throat, " would yo' moiud shakin' honds wi' a 
 
 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' dun- 
 not see owt agen it. Th' truth is, as it's summat as has 
 oeen on my moind fur some toime, ivver sin' th' acci- 
 dent, i' fact. Pluck's pluck, yo' see, whether yo're fur a 
 mon or agen him. Yo're not uiich to look at. Yo' mow! 
 
256 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. 
 
 be handsomer, an' yo' mowt be likelier, yo' raowt easily 
 ha' more muscle, an' yo' dtinnot look as if yo' wur like tc 
 be nrch i' argyment ; but yo're getten a backbone o' yore 
 own, I'm danged if yo' ha' na." 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you, I am sure," said Grace. 
 
 " To' need na be," answered Sammy, encouragingly. 
 " Yo' need na be. If yo'd getten owt to be obleeged to 
 me fur, I should na ha so mich to say. To' see I'm 
 makin' a soart o' pollygy, a soart o' pollygy," with evi- 
 dent enjoyment of the word. " An' that's why I said as 
 it mowt be as well to ha' a witness. I wur allus one aa 
 set more store by th' state than th' church, an' parsons 
 wur na i' my line, an' happen I ha' ben a bit hard on yo', 
 an' ha' said things as carried weight agen yo' wi' them aa 
 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' to wi'draw my oppysition, sin' 
 it seemit as if I'd made a bit o' a mistake. Yo're ney- 
 ther knave nor foo', if yo' are a parson. Theer now 1 
 Good-mornin' to yo' 1 " 
 
 " Noan on 'em con say as I wur na fair," " Owd Sam- 
 my " said to himself , as he went on his way shaking his 
 head, " I could na ha' done no fairer. He desarved 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 virtue into The Crown, and diffused it abroad 
 over his pint of sixpenny. He found it not actually un- 
 pleasant to display hirrrself as a magnate, who, having 
 made a most natural mistake, had been too independent 
 and straightforward to let the matter rest, and conse- 
 quently had gone to the magnificent length of apologetid 
 explanation. 
 
"A SO ART OP POLL TOY." 257 
 
 " 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. I changed my moind about th' 
 little chap that day, an' I ha' ben tellin' him so." 
 
 " To' 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 c oth, I am na afeard to tell him I loike th' 
 
CHAPTEK XLII. 
 
 ASHLEY-WOLD. 
 
 Two weeks after Joan left Riggan, she entered the vil- 
 lage of Ashley-Wold on foot. With the exception of a 
 few miles here and there, when a friendly wagoner had 
 offered her a lift, she had made all her journey in this 
 manner. She had met with discouragement and disap- 
 pointment. She had not fancied that it would be an easy 
 matter to find work, though she had expressed no doubt 
 to Anice, but it was even a more difficult matter than she 
 had imagined. At some places work was not to be had, 
 in others the fact that she was an utter stranger went 
 against her. 
 
 It was evening when she came to Ashley-Wold ; the 
 rain was falling soft and slowly, and the air was chill. 
 She was cold, and faint with hunger. The firelight that 
 shone through the cottage windows brought to her an 
 acute sense of her bodily weariness through its suggestion 
 of rest and cheerfulness. The few passers-by principally 
 men and women returning from their daily labor glanced 
 at her curiously. 
 
 She had held to the letter as a last resource. When she 
 could not help herself she would ask for assistance, but 
 not until then. Still she had always turned her face to- 
 ward Ashley-Wold. Now she meant to go to Mrs. Gallo- 
 way and deliver the letter. 
 
 Upon entering the village she had stopped and asked a 
 
ASHLEY- WOLD. 259 
 
 farmer for directions. He had stared at her at lirst, 
 hardly comprehending her northern 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. It was a pretty place, with a quaint pic- 
 turesqueness. A hedge, which was a marvel of trimness, 
 surrounded the garden, ivy clung to the walls and gables, 
 and fancifully clipped box and other evergreens made a 
 modest greenery about it, winter though it was. At her 
 first glance at this garden Joan felt something familiar in 
 it. Perhaps Anice herself had planned some portion of 
 it. Joan paused a moment and stood looking over the 
 hedge. 
 
 Mrs. Galloway, sitting at her work-table near the win- 
 dow, had found her attention attracted a few moments be- 
 fore by a tall young woman coming down the road which 
 passed on one side of the hedge. 
 
 " There is something a little remarkable about her," 
 she said. " She certainly does not belong to Ashley- 
 Wold." 
 
 Then Joan stopped by the hedge and she saw her 
 face and uttered a low exclamation of surprise at its 
 beauty. She drew nearer to the window and looked out 
 at her. 
 
 " She must be very cold," said Mrs. Galloway. " She 
 looks as if she had made a long journey. I will send 
 Hollis to her." 
 
 A few minutes later there tripped down tie garden- 
 walk a trimly attired young housemaid. 
 
 The mistress hal seen her from the window and 
 thought she looked cold and tired. Would she come into 
 the house to rest t 
 
260 THAI LASS O LOWRIE'S. 
 
 Joan answered with a tinge of color on her cheek. She 
 felt a little like a beggar. 
 
 " Thank yo' ; I'll come," she said. " If th' mistress is 
 Mrs. Galloway, I ha' a letter fur her fro' Lancashire." 
 
 Mrs. Galloway met them on the threshold. 
 
 " The young woman, ma'am," said the servant, " has a 
 letter from Lancashire." 
 
 " From Lancashire ! " said Mrs. Galloway. 
 
 "Fro' Riggan, mistress," said Joan. "Fro' Miss Aniee 
 I'm Joan Lowrie." 
 
 That Joan Lowrie was a name familiar to her was evi- 
 dent by the change in Mrs. Galloway's face. A faint 
 flush of pleasure warmed it, and she spoke quickly. 
 
 " Joan Lowrie ! " she said. " My dear child's friend ! 
 Then I know you very well. Come into the room, my dear." 
 
 She led her into the room and closed the door. 
 
 " Tou 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 yourself thoroughly and have a 
 cup of tea," she said, "' and then I will begin to ask ques- 
 tions." 
 
 There was a wide, low-seated, low-armed, soft-cushioned 
 chair at one side of the fire, and in this chair she had 
 made Joan seat herself. The sudden change from the 
 chill dampness of the winter day to the exquisite relief 
 and rest, almost overcame the girl. She was deadly pale 
 when Mrs. Galloway ceased, and her lips trembled ; she 
 tried to speak, and for a moment could not ; tears rushed 
 to her eyes and stood in them. But she managed to an- 
 swer at last. 
 
 " I beg yore pardon," she said. " Yo' ha' no need tc 
 moind me. Th' warmth has made me a bit faint, that's 
 aw. I've noan been used to it lately." 
 
ASHLEY- WOLD. 261 
 
 Mrs. Galloway came and stood near her. 
 
 " I am sorry to bear 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," 
 fibe said. 
 
 When the tea was brought in and Joan had sat down, 
 the old lady read the letter. 
 
 " Keep her with you if you can. Give her the help sht 
 needs most. She has had a hard life, and wants to forget 
 &" 
 
 u Now, I wonder," said Mrs. Galloway to herself, 
 " -what the help is that she needs most \ " 
 
 The rare beauty of the face impressed her as it invari- 
 ably impressed strangers, but she looked beneath the sur- 
 face and saw something more in it than its beauty. She 
 saw its sadness, its resolution. 
 
 When Joan rose from the table, the old lady was still 
 standing with the letter in her hand. She folded it and 
 
 o 
 
 spoke to her. 
 
 " If you are sufficiently rested, I should like you to sit 
 down and talk to 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 my mind 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 be dainty, yo' see." 
 
262 THAT LASS CP LOWRIJS'S. 
 
 Mrs. Galloway smoothed the back of the small, with 
 ered hand upon her knee with the palm of the other. 
 
 " Then, perhaps," she said slowly, " you will not refuse 
 tc accept my offer and stay here with me ? " 
 
 \yi' y O ' i Joan exclaimed. 
 
 " I am an old woman, you see," Mrs. Galloway answered. 
 " I have lived in Ashley-Wold all my life, and have, as it 
 were, accumulated duties, and now as the years go by, I 
 do not find it so easy to perform them as I used to. I 
 need a companion who is young and strong, and quick to 
 understand the wants of those who suffer. Will you 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. Gallo- 
 way stopped at the room which had been An ice's, and 
 looked in upon her guest. But Joan was not asleep, as 
 she had hoped to find her. She stood at the fireside, look- 
 ing into the blaze. 
 
 " Will you come here a minnit ? " she said. 
 
 She looked haggard and wearied, but the eyes she 
 raised to her hostess were 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 mean to begin fair an' clear. I ha' a 
 trouble as I'm fain to hide ; it's a trouble as I ha' fowt 
 wi' an' ha' na helped mysen agen. It's na a shame," 
 (straightening herself ; " it's a trouble such as ony 
 woman might bear an' be honest. I coom away fro' 
 Riggan to be out o' th' way on it not to forget it, for I 
 conna but so as I should na be so near to to th' hurt 
 on it." 
 
 " I do not need another word " Mrs. Galloway answered 
 
ASHLEY- WOLD. 263 
 
 " If you had chosen to keep it a secret, it would have been 
 your own secret as long as you chose that it should be so. 
 There is nothing more you need ? Very welL Good- 
 night, mv dearl" 
 
CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 LIZ COMES BACK. 
 
 il MIBR," said Mrs. Thwaite, " it wur last neet. an' yon 
 mowt ha' knocked me down wi' a feather, fur I seed hei 
 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, I dunnot. It wur pretty late, yo' see, 
 an' I wur gettin' th' mester's supper ready, an' as I turns 
 mysen fro' th' oven, wheer I had been stoopin' down to 
 look at th' bit o' bacon, I seed her face agen th' winder, 
 starm' in at me wild loike. Aye, it wur her sure enow, 
 poor wench ! 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 met him not many yards away, and 
 before she spoke to him saw that he was not ignorant of 
 what she had to say. 
 
 " I think you know what I am going to tell you," she 
 aid. 
 
 " I think I do," was his reply. 
 
 The rumor had come to him from an acquaintance of 
 the Maxeys, and he had made 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 war. 
 She wur in a bad way enow said sho'd been out on th' 
 
LIZ COMES BACK. 265 
 
 tramp fur nigh a week seemit a tit out o' her head. 
 Th' mon had left her again, as she raowt ha' knowed ho 
 would. Ay, lasses is foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, 
 bad o' th' fever. I towd her she'd better ha' stayed theer. 
 She wanted to know wheer Joan Lowrie wur, an' kept 
 axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and towd her 
 so." 
 
 " Did she ask about her little child ? " said Anice. 
 
 " Ay, I think she did, if I remember rect. She said 
 Bummat about wan tin' to know wheer we'd put it, an' if 
 Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seem to be th' ehoiid 
 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 find her 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 stay away. Let me go for Joan's sake." 
 
 So he gave way, and they passed out together. But 
 they did not find her in the church-yard. The gate had 
 been pushed open and hung swinging on its hinges. 
 There were fresh footprints upon the damp clay of the 
 path that led to the corner where the child lay, and when 
 they approached the little .mound they saw that something 
 had been dropped upon the grass near it. It was a thin, 
 once gay-colored, little red shawl. Anice bent down and 
 picked it up. " She has been here," she said. 
 
 It was Anice who, after this, first thought of going to 
 the old cottage upon the Knoll Road. The afternoon wu 
 12 
 
266 THAT LASS Cf LOWRIE'S. 
 
 waning when they left the church-yard ; when they came 
 within sight of the cottage the sun had sunk behind the 
 hills. In the red, wintry light, the place looked terribly- 
 desolate. Weeds had sprung up about the house, anc 
 their rank growth covered the very threshold, the shutters 
 hung loose and broken, and a damp greenness had crept 
 upon the stone step. 
 
 A chill fell upon her when they stood before the gate 
 and saw what was within. Something besides the cling- 
 ing greenness had crept upon the step, something human, 
 a homeless creature, who might have staggered there 
 and fallen, or who might have laid herself there to die. 
 It was Liz, lying with her face downward and with her dead 
 hand against the closed door. 
 
CHAPTEH XL1V. 
 
 NOT YET. 
 
 MRS. GA.LLOWAY arose and advanced to meet her visitoi 
 with a slightly puzzled air. 
 
 " Mr. " she began. 
 
 " Fergus Derrick," ended the young man. " From 
 Riggan, madam." 
 
 She held out her hand cordially. 
 
 f< Joan is in the garden," she said, after a few moments 
 of earnest conversation. " Go to her." 
 
 It was a day very different from the one upon which 
 Joan Lowrie had come to Ashley-Wold. Spring had set 
 her light foot fairly upon the green Kentish soil. Farther 
 north she had only begun to show her face timidly, but 
 here the atmosphere was fresh and balmy, the hedges were 
 budding bravely, and there was a low twitter of birds in 
 the air. The garden Anice had so often tended was flush- 
 ing into bloom in sunny corners, and the breath of early 
 violets was sweet in it. Derrick was conscious of their 
 springtime odor as he walked down the path, in the direc- 
 tion Mrs. Galloway had pointed out. It was a retired nook 
 where evergreens were growing, and where the violet 
 fragrance was more powerful than anywhere else, for the 
 rich, moist earth of one bed was blue with them. Joan 
 was standing near these violets, he saw her as he turned 
 into the ^alk, a motionless figure in heavy brown dra, 
 pery. 
 
268 THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'3. 
 
 She heard him and started from her reverie Witib 
 another half-dozen steps he was at her side. 
 
 " Don't look as if I had alarmed you," he said. " It 
 seems such a poor beginning to what I have come tc 
 say." 
 
 Her hand trembled so that one or two of the loose violets 
 she held fell at his feet. She had a cluster of their fra- 
 grant bloom fastened in the full knot of her, hair. The 
 dropping of the flowers seemed to help her to recover her- 
 self. She drew back a little, a shade of pride in her 
 gesture, 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, and the quaint northern 
 burr still held its own, and here and there a word betrayed 
 her effort. 
 
 "No, no," he said, "you will listen. You gave me 
 back my life. You will not make it worthless. If you 
 cannot love me," his voice shaking, " it would have been 
 less cruel to have left me where you found me a dead 
 man, for whom all pain was over." 
 
 He stopped. The woman trembled frotn head to foot. 
 She raised her eyes from the ground and looked at him, 
 catching her breath. 
 
 o 
 
 " Yo' are askin' me to be yore 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 leaned against the tree under which they 
 were standing, resting her face upon her arm. Hei 
 hand clung among the ivy leaves and crushed them 
 
NOT YET. 269 
 
 Her old speech came back in the quick hushed cry she 
 uttered. 
 
 " I conna turn yo' fro' me," she said. " Oh ! 1 conna I " 
 
 " Thank God ! Thank God! " he cried. 
 
 lie would have caught her to his breast, but she held 
 up her hand to restrain him. 
 
 "Not yet," she said, "not yet. I conna turn you fro 5 
 
 me, but theer's surnmat I must ask. Give me t-h' time to 
 
 
 
 make myself worthy give me th' time to work an' strive; 
 be patient witli me until th' day comes when I can come to 
 yo ? an' know I need not shame yo'. They say I am na slow 
 at learnin' wait and see how I can work for th' mon fci 
 th' mon I love." 
 
 THB XKD. 
 
NEW DOLLAR NOVELS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 
 Each One Volume, i2mo Clotb, - - $1.00 
 
 VALENTINO. 
 
 By WILLIAM WALDORF ASTOR. 
 
 Price reduced to One Dollar. 
 
 A romance founded upon the history of the Borgia family in the early pait 
 of the Sixteenth Century, during the lifetime of Pope Alexander VI. 
 and his son Cassar Borgia. It presents a remarkably carefully studied 
 picture of those stirring times. A story full of spirit and action. 
 
 " The details of workmanship are excellent. Mr. Astor writes, appar- 
 ently, out of a full mind and a thorough interest in his subject." Atlantic 
 Monthly. 
 
 " His manner is dignified and his English pleasant and easy." Boston 
 Advertiser. 
 
 "It is well called a romance, and no romance indeed could be more 
 effective than the extraordinary extract from Italian annals which it preserves 
 in such vivid colors." N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 "A signal addition to the really superior novels of the season." The 
 Independent. 
 
 " One cannot read far in ' Valentino ' before perceiving that Mr. Astor 
 has written a very creditable romance -in the -historical field, and one that 
 would not have lacked readers had the name been left off the title." N. Y. 
 Times. 
 
2 SCKIBNER'S NEW DOLLAR NOVELS. 
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 
 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 
 Mr. Matthews combines successfully the old style of story, full of plot, and 
 the modern more subtle methods. The motif is most original and clear, 
 and at the same time the author shows an uncommon literary dexterity, 
 'ihe scene is laid in New York. 
 
 " It is an amusing story and the interest is carried through it from 
 beginning to end." N. Y. Times, 
 
 " A wholesome society novel, a strikingly dramatic and thrilling tale, 
 and a tender love story, every word of which is worth reading." Critic. 
 
 "A simple but ingenious plot, there is force and liveliness to the 
 narrative, and the pictures of New York social life are done by one ' to the 
 manner born.' " Boston Post. 
 
 "A clever and thoroughly original tale, full of dramatic situations, and 
 replete with some new and most expressive Americanisms." Literary 
 World. 
 
 WITHIN THE CAPES. 
 
 By HOWARD PYLE, 
 
 Author of "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood," etc., etc. 
 
 Mr. Pyle's novel is, first of all, an absorbingly interesting one. As a sea 
 story, pure and simple, it compares well with the best of Llaik Russell's 
 tales, but it is much more ; the adventures of Tom Granger, the hero, are 
 by no means confined to sea life. Though never sensational, there are 
 plenty of exciting incidents and ever a well-developed mystery. The 
 plot is of the good old-fashioned thrilling sort and the style strong and 
 vigorous. 
 
 "Mr. Pyle proves himself a master of nautical technique and an 
 accurate observer. . . . His style is good and fresh, and in its concise- 
 ness resembles that of Marryatt." N, Y. Journal of Commerce. 
 
 " The style is so quaint, so felicitous, so quietly humorous, that one 
 must smile, wonder and admire." Hartford Post. 
 
SCRIBATEK'S NEW DOLLAR NOVELS. 3 
 
 A WHEEL OF FIRE. 
 
 By ARLO BATES. 
 
 Mr. Bates' novel is so unusually strong in its conception that it makes a 
 strong impression on this account alone. It is not only a striking story, 
 but is told with remarkable power and intensity. 
 
 "A very powerful performance, not only original in its conception, but 
 full of fine literary art." George Parsons Lathrop. 
 
 " One of the most fascinating stories of the year." Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 "A carefully written story of much originality and possessing great 
 interest." Albany Argus. 
 
 "The plot is clearly conceived and carefully worked out ; the story is 
 well told with something of humor, and with a skillful management of 
 dialogue and narrative." Art Interchange. 
 
 ROSES OF SHADOW. 
 
 By T. R. SULL1YAN. 
 
 A most pleasant revival of a type of novel that has been growing; rare. A 
 story well told, with the charm of a sincere self-respecting ""'e that 
 does not lose itself in a search after effects and oddities, and with a strong 
 and healthy plot, not frittered away by perpetual analysis. 
 
 "The characters of the story have a remarkable vividness and individ- 
 uality every one of them which mark at once Mr. Sullivan's strongest 
 
 promise as a novelist All of Mr. Sullivan's men are excellent. 
 
 John Musgrove, the grimly pathetic old beau, sometimes reminds us of a 
 touch of Thackeray." Cincinnati Times-Star. 
 
 ACROSS THE CHASM. 
 
 e// STORY OF NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 A novel full of spirit and wit which takes up a new situation in American life. 
 The cleverness of the sketching, the admirable fairness of the whole, 
 and a capital plot make the novel one of the brightest of recent years. 
 
 "A story which will at once attract readers by its original and striking 
 qualities." Journal of Commerce, N. Y. 
 
SCRIBNER'S NEW DOLLAR NOVELS. 
 
 "Nothing can be more freshly and prettily written than the last few 
 pages, when Louis and Margaret meet and peace is made. It is a little idyl 
 
 of its kind 'Across the Chasm ' not being an impalpable story; 
 
 but having a live young woman and a live man in its pages, deserves hearty 
 commendation." N. Y. Times. 
 
 A DESPERATE CHANCE. 
 
 By Lieut. J. D. J. KELLY, U.S.N. 
 
 "A Desperate Chance" is as absorbing as only a novel can be when told 
 with the verve of such a writer as Lieut. Kelly. It is a fresh, stirring story, 
 with sufficient adventure, romance and mystery to keep the reader absorbed. 
 It may safely be said that if the tale is once begun it will be finished in a 
 continuous reading, and we think of it as one of the stories we will always 
 remember distinctly, and which was well worth the reading. 
 
 "A stirring sea story." New York Star. 
 
 "Lieut. J. D. J. Kelly's novel, 'A Desperate Chance,' is of the good 
 old-fashioned, exciting kind. Though it is a sea story, all the action is not 
 on board ship. There is a well-developed mystery, and while it is in no 
 sense sensational readers may be assured that they will not be tired out by 
 analytical descriptions, nor will they find a dull page from first to last." 
 Brooklyn Union. 
 
 " 'A Desperate Chance' is a sea story of the best sort. It possesses the 
 charm and interest which attach us to sea life, but it does not bewilder the 
 reader by nautical extremes, which none but a professional sailor can under- 
 stand. 'A Desperate Chance' reminds us of Mr. Clark Russell's stories, 
 but Lieut. Kelly avoids the professional fault into which Mr. Russell has 
 fallen so often. The book is extraordinarily interesting, and this nowadays 
 is the highest commendation a novel can have." Boston Courier- 
 
 COLOR STUDIES. 
 
 By T. A. JANYIER (hory Black). 
 
 A series of most delightful pictures of artists' life in New York which first 
 attracted the attention of readers to Mr. Janvier as a writer of very 
 notable short stories. Certainly among stories dealing with artists' sur- 
 roundings there have never been written better tales than these which 
 are collected in this beautiful little volume. 
 "The style is bright, piquant and graphic, and the plots are full of 
 
 humor and originality." Boston Traveler. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 <r 745 Broadway, New York. 
 
--T ' 
 
 WY& 
 
/ yV" > x^ 
 University of California 
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 Return this material to the library 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
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