ght
back to earth at once.

Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ in the last
agony, and beneath it was written, "It is finished." 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 see. What is it?"

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

Joan did not speak.

"I have no words of my own, to explain," continued Anice. "I can 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 sullenness.

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

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

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

When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who 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 last she began
to explain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancying
that she was impelled 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