She was only left endurance--yet even in this there was a gladness which
she had in nothing else. She could never meet him as a happier woman
might, but she could do for him what other women could not do--she could
brave darkness and danger, she could watch over him, if need be; if the
worst came to the worst, she could interpose herself between him and
violence, or death itself.

But of all this, Fergus Derrick suspected nothing. He only knew that
while she had not misinterpreted his appeal, some reason of her own held
her firm.

CHAPTER XXVI - The Package Returned

As Joan turned the corner of a lane leading to the high road, she found
herself awkwardly trying to pass a man who confronted her--a young
fellow far too elegant and well-dressed to be a Rigganite.

"Beg pardon!" he said abruptly, as if he were not in the best of humors.
And then she recognized him.

"It's Mester Ralph Landsell," she said to herself as she went on. "What
is he doin' here?"

But before she had finished speaking, she started at the sight of a
figure hurrying on before her,--Liz herself, who had evidently just
parted from her lover, and was walking rapidly homeward.

It was a shock to Joan, though she did not suspect the whole truth.
She had trusted the girl completely; she had never interfered with her
outgoing or incoming; she had been generously lenient toward her on
every point, and her pang at finding herself deceived was keen. Her
sudden discovery of the subterfuge filled her with alarm.

What was the meaning of it? Surely it could not mean that this man was
digging fresh pitfalls for the poor straying feet. She could not believe
this,--she could only shudder as the ominous thought suggested itself.
And Liz--nay, even Liz could not be weak enough to trifle with danger
again.

But it was Liz who was hurrying on before her, and who was walking so
fast that both were breathless when Joan reached her side and laid a
detaining hand upon her shoulder.

"Liz," she said, "are yo' afeard o' me?"

Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. There was a tone
in the voice she had never heard before, a reproach in Joan's eyes
before which she faltered.

"I--did na know it wur yo'," she said, almost peevishly. "What fur
should I be afeard o' yo'?"

Joan's hand dropped.

"Yo' know best," she answered. "I did na say yo' wur."

Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in nervous
protest.

"I dunnot se