aid, with fresh tears. "He nivver let me
be till I promised to go. He said he would make a lady o' me an' he wur
allus givin' me things. He wur fond o' me at first,--that he wur,--an' I
wur fond o' him. I nivver seed no one loike him afore. Oh! it's hard, it
is.--Oh! it's bitter hard an' cruel, as it should come to this."

And she wailed and sobbed until she wore herself out, and wearied Joan
to the very soul.

But Joan bore with her and never showed impatience by word or deed.
Childish petulances and plaints fell upon her like water upon a
rock--but now and then the strong nature was rasped beyond endurance by
the weak one. She had taken no small task upon herself when she gave Liz
her word that she would shield her. Only after a while, in a few weeks,
a new influence began to work upon Liz's protectress. The child for whom
there seemed no place in the world, or in any pitying heart--the child
for whom Liz felt nothing but vague dislike and resentment--the child
laid its light but powerful hand upon Joan. Once or twice she noticed
as she moved about the room that the little creature's eyes would follow
her in a way something like its mother's, as if with appeal to her
superior strength. She fell gradually into the habit of giving it
more attention. It was so little and light, so easily taken from Liz's
careless hold when it was restless, so easily carried to and fro, as she
went about her household tasks. She had never known much about babies
until chance had thrown this one in her path; it was a great novelty.
It liked her strong arms, and Liz was always ready to give it up to her,
feeling only a weak bewilderment at her fancy for it. When she was at
home it was rarely out of her arms. It was no source of weariness to her
perfect strength. She carried it here and there, she cradled it upon
her knees, when she sat down by the fire to rest; she learned in time
a hundred gentle woman's ways through its presence. Her step became
lighter, her voice softer--a heavy tread, or a harsh tone might waken
the child. For the child's sake she doffed her uncouth working-dress
when she entered the house; for the child's sake she made an effort to
brighten the dulness, and soften the roughness of their surroundings.

The Reverend Paul, in his visits to the house, observed with tremor,
the subtle changes wrought in her. Catching at the straw of her negative
welcome, he went to see Liz whenever he could find a tangible excuse.
He had