y good," he said, his strong hand returning her grasp with
warm gratitude. "But I am sorry I said so much, if I have frightened
you. I ought to have remembered how new such things were to you. It is
nothing, I assure you." And bidding her good-night again, he went away
quite warmed at heart by her innocent interest in him, but blaming
himself not a little for his indiscretion.

CHAPTER VI - Joan and the Child

To the young curate's great wonder, on his first visit to her after the
advent of Liz and her child, Joan changed her manner towards him. She
did not attempt to repel him, she even bade him welcome in a way of her
own. Deep in Joan's heart was hidden a fancy that perhaps the work of
this young fellow who was "good enow fur a parson," lay with such as
Liz, and those who like Liz bore a heavy burden.

"If yo' can do her any good," she said, "come and welcome. Come every
day. I dunnot know much about such like mysen, but happen yo' ha' a way
o' helpin' folk as canna help theirsens i' trouble--an' Liz is one on
'em."

Truly Liz was one of these. She clung to Joan in a hopeless, childish
way, as her only comfort. She could do nothing for herself, she could
only obey Joan's dictates, and this she did in listless misery. When she
had work to do, she made weak efforts at doing it, and when she had none
she sat and held the child upon her knee, her eyes following her friend
with a vague appeal. The discomfort of her lot, the wretchedness of
coming back to shame and tears, after a brief season of pleasure and
luxury, was what crushed her. So long as her lover had cared for her,
and she had felt no fear of hunger or cold, or desertion, she had been
happy--happy because she could be idle and take no thought for the
morrow, and was almost a lady. But now all that was over. She had come
to the bitter dregs of the cup. She was thrown on her own resources,
nobody cared for her, nobody helped her but Joan, nobody called her
pretty and praised her ways. She was not to be a lady after all, she
must work for her living and it must be a poor one too. There would be
no fine clothes, no nice rooms, no flattery and sugar-plums. Everything
would be even far harder, and more unpleasant than it had been before.
And then, the baby? What could she do with it?--a creature more helpless
than herself, always to be clothed and taken care of, when she could not
take care of herself, always in the way, always crying and wailing and
troubl