ingly submitted. Influences long at work upon her had rendered her less defiant than she had been in the past. There was an element of quiet in her expression, such as Derrick had not seen when her beauty first caught his attention.
They walked together silently for a while.
"I should like to hear you say that you do not blame me," said Derrick, at last, abruptly.
She knew what he meant, it was evident.
"I conna blame yo' fur doin' what were reet," she answered.
"Right,—you thought it right?"
"Why should na I? Yo' could na ha' done no other."
"Thank you for saying that," he returned. "I have thought once or twice that you might have blamed me."
"I did na know," was her answer. "I did na know as I had done owt to mak' yo' think so ill of me."
He did not find further comment easy. He felt, as he had felt before, that Joan had placed him at a disadvantage. He so often made irritating mistakes in his efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found that he had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with her problems and her moods, was far less difficult to comprehend than Joan Lowrie.
Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's eyes had curiosity and wonder in them when she met her friend.
"Joan," she said, peering over the door-sill at Derrick's retreating figure, "is na that one o' th' mesters? Is na it the Lunnon engineer, Joan?"
"Yes," Joan answered briefly.
The pretty, silly creature's eyes grew larger, with a shade of awe.
