' Him as deed on it! That's what I coom
to say."

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 Derrick 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 Lowrie?"

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

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

CHAPTER XIX - Ribbons

The light in the cottage upon the Knoll Road burned late in these days,
and when Derrick was delayed in the little town, he used to see 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 windows 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 was 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 the confession
seemed awkward and reluctan