ws struck, the first shall fa' on _me_. Theer!" and
she struck herself upon her breast. "If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' my
loife--if I ivver feared yo' as choild or woman, dunnot believe me now."

"Yo' mean that?" he said.

"Yo' know whether I mean it or not," she answered.

"Aye!" he said. "I'm dom'd if yo' dunnot, yo' she-devil, an' bein' as
that's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I dunnot mean summat too," and
he raised his hand and gave her a blow that felled her to the ground;
then he turned away, cursing as he went.

She uttered no cry of appeal or dread, and Liz and the child slept on
inside, as quietly as before. It was the light-falling rain and the cool
morning air that roused her. She came to herself at last, feeling sick
and dizzy, and conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple.
She managed to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the rough
gate-post. She had borne such blows before, but she never felt her
humiliation so bitterly as she did at this moment. She laid her brow
upon her hand, which rested on the gate, and broke into heavy sobs.

"I shall bear th' mark for mony a day," she said. "I mun hide mysen
away. I could na bear fur _him_ to see it, even tho' I getten it fur his
sake."

CHAPTER XXV - The Old Danger

It had been some time since Derrick on his nightly walks homeward had
been conscious of the presence of the silent figure; but the very night
after the occurrence narrated in the last chapter, he was startled at
his first turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan.

There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent presence seemed
only to widen the distance Fate had placed between them. She was ready
to shield him from danger, but she held herself apart from him even
in doing so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature of a
different world,--a world so separated from his own that nothing could
ever bridge the gulf between them.

To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to speak to the
girl. He had forborne for her sake before, but to-night he was in one
of those frames of mind in which a man is selfish, and is apt to let his
course be regulated by his impulse. Why should he not speak, after all?
If there was danger for him there was danger for her, and it was absurd
that he should not show her that he was not afraid. Why should she
interpose her single strength between himself and the vengeance of a man
of whom he had had the best in t