Anice. "I can tell you better in the words of the men who loved him and saw him die."
Joan turned to her.
"Saw him dee!" she repeated.
"There were men who saw him when he died, you know," said Anice. "The New Testament tells us how. It is as real as the picture, I think. Did you never read it?"
The girl's face took an expression of distrust and sullenness.
"Th' Bible has na been i' my line," she answered; "I've left that to th' parsons an' th' loike; but th' pictur' tuk my eye. It seemt different."
"Let us sit down," said Anice, "you will be tired of standing."
When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who was sleeping, lowering her voice for fear of disturbing it. Joan regarded the little thing with a look of half-subdued pride.
"I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi' me than wi' Liz," she said. "It worrits Liz an' it neer worrits me. I'm so strong, yo' see, I con carry it, an' scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an' it seems to me as it knows it too, fur th' minute she begins to fret it frets too."
There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she began to explain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancying that she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence she reluctantly submitted to. She had come to speak about the night school.
"Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to," she said; I larnt to read theer an' write a bit, but—but
