ays did, and at this moment the soft fingers closed upon one of her
own quietly. She was quite alone, and for an instant there was a deep
silence. After her first glance at the tiny creature, she broke this
silence herself.

"Little lass," she said in a whisper, "what ails thee? Is thy pain
o'er?"

As she looked again at the baby face upturned as if in silent answer,
the truth broke in upon her.

Folding her arms around the little form, she laid her head upon its
breast and wept aloud,--wept as she had never wept before. Then she laid
the child upon a pillow and covered its face. Liz's last words returned
to her with a double force. It had not lived to forget or blame her.
Where was Liz to-night,--at this hour, when her child was so safe?

The next morning, on her way downstairs to the breakfast-room, Anice
Barholm was met by a servant.

"The young woman from the mines would like to see you, Miss," said the
girl.

Anice found Joan awaiting her below.

"I ha' come to tell yo'," she said, "that th' little un deed at midneet.
Theer wur no one I could ca' in. I sat alone wi' it i' th' room aw th'
neet, an' then I left it to come here."

Anice and Thwaite's wife returned home with her. What little there was
to be done, they re-mained to do. But this was scarcely more than to
watch with her until the pretty baby face was hidden away from human
sight.

When all was over, Joan became restless. The presence of the child had
saved her from utter desolation, and now that it was gone, the emptiness
of the house chilled her. At the last, when her companions were about to
leave her, she broke down.

"I conna bear it," she said. "I will go wi' yo'."

Thwaite's wife had proposed before that she should make her home with
them; and now, when Mrs. Thwaite returned to Riggan, Joan accompanied
her, and the cottage was locked up.

This alteration changed greatly the routine of her life. There were
children in the Thwaite household--half a dozen of them--who, having
overcome their first awe of her, had learned before the baby died to be
fond of Joan. Her handsome face attracted them when they ceased to fear
its novelty; and the hard-worked mother said to her neighbors:

"She's getten a way wi' childer, somehow,--that lass o' Lowrie's. Yo'd
wonder if yo' could see her wi' 'em. She's mony a bit o' help to me."

But as time progressed, Anice Barholm noted the constant presence
of that worn look upon her face. Instead of diminis