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 her visits
to her acquaintances. Then, alternating with fretful listlessness, were
tremulous high spirits and feverish fits of gayety.

There came a day, however, when Joan gained a clue to the meaning of
this change, though never from her first recognition of it until the end
did she comprehend it fully. Perhaps she was wholly unconscious of what
narrower natures experience. Then, too, she had little opportunity 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
constantly 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.

"Theer's a young sprig o' one o' th' managers stayin' at th' 'Queen's
Arms,'" remarked a pit woman one morning. "He's a foine young chap,
too--dresses up loike a 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 be '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.

"Lizzie, lass," she said; "yo' need na ha' been afeard to tell me."

There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then stillness.

"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 wur 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 hear