e
aware that suspicion points to him as the cause of my--of my dear
father's death."

"Yes, I do know it. Oh! miss, forgive me, and let me come and serve
you. I want no wage; but I'd die for you, if that would do you good. I
have never forgot your face that night, nor how you spoke soft then
instead of angry. Oh, miss, let me come and live with you. I will sleep
on the ground. I'll do the work of two in the dairy, or in the house,
and I want no wage. Poor mother always said God would take care of me,
but He has taken away the baby, He has, that is the cruellest part. And
father; oh! miss, you can't tell what it is to be filled with shame
about a father."

"No, indeed," Joyce said. "No; I know what it is to be proud of one, and
to----" Her voice broke down, and Piers said:

"She ought to go away, Joyce; she can't be left here."

But Joyce seemed to be thinking for a few minutes. Here was a girl whose
father had, as everyone thought, been the cause of her father's death;
here was the daughter of this man, coming to her and begging to be taken
into the house, to be her servant? Was it possible?

With a discretion far beyond her years, Joyce said, "I will make
inquiries about you from the school mistress, and if I find you really
bear a good character, I will get you a place, and----"

"I want no place apart from _you_" the girl said, passionately. "If I
could die to undo my father's wicked deed, I would die, and," she added,
sadly, "it ain't much I have to live for now the baby's gone. But if you
won't take me, well, I'll tramp to Bristol; and if I can't get bread in
an honest way, I must get it somehow else."

"No, no; don't say that. I must consider and think, and if I can take
you I will. Mrs. More is so ill, so ill that it is feared she will not
live, so I can't write to her. But I will _think_, and," she added, in a
low voice, "I will pray about it. I am in great trouble myself; we are
all in great trouble."

"I know it, I know it. Oh! dear lady, ever since night and day, night
and day, I have prayed for you, and that God would keep you."

There was something in the girl's despairing voice which touched Joyce
to the heart.

"Come round to the kitchen door with me," she said, "and I will see that
you have rest and food. I am sure you want both."

"I don't want rest; there is no rest in me, and food chokes me."

But Joyce took no notice of this, and saying, decidedly, "follow me,"
she put her hand on Pier