th' queen lives theer. I wur
happy aw th' toime I wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life.
I--I canna hardly bear to think on it--it gi'es me such a wearyin' an'
long-in'; I wish I could go back, I do"--ending with a sob.

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

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

The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The 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 better 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--allus whimperin' an' cry in'; I dunnot know what to do wi'
it half th' toime."

Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down upon a low wooden stool,
held it gently, looking at its small round face. It was a pretty little
creature, pretty with Liz's own beauty, 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. Barholm 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 succeeded very well. When she
went away, the girl was evidently sorry to see her go.

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

"I will