ot
occur to her to visit the consequences of the mistake upon any other
than herself.

The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowrie 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
stoicism 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 was with something of secret wonder that she awoke
to the consciousness of the fact that she was not holding Anice Barholm
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
friendship 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
minutes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spending
hours there. In this little room the books, and pictures, and other
refinements appealed to senses unmoved 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 dropping in upon her on his way back
to town, after 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 conna move fur fear o' wakenin'
th' choild. I'm fain to see yo' to-neet."

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

"I ha' been readin' th' Bible," she said, as if in desperation. "I
dunnot know why, unless happen some