Joan reached her side and laid a detaining hand upon her shoulder.
"Liz," she said, "are yo' afeard o' me?"
Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. There was a tone in the voice she had never heard before a reproach in Joan's eyes before which she faltered.
"I—did na know it wur yo'," she said, almost peevishly "What fur should I be afeard o' yo'?"
Joan's hand dropped.
"Yo' know best," she answered. "I did na say yo' wur."
Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in nervous protest.
"I dunnot see why I should be, though to be sure it's enow to fear one to be followed i' this way. Canna I go out far a minnit wi'out—wi'out—"
"Nay, lass," Joan interrupted, "that's wild talk."
Liz began to whimper.
"Th' choild wur asleep," she said, "an' it wur so lonesome i' th' house. Theer wur no harm i' comin' out."
"I hope to God theer wur na," exclaimed Joan. "I'd rayther see thy dead face lyin' by th' little un's on th' pillow than think as theer wur. Yo' know what I mean, Liz. Yo' know I could na ha' caught up wi' yo' wi'out passin' thot mon theer,—th' mon as yo' ha' been meetin' on th' sly,—God knows why, lass, fur I canna see, unless yo' want to fa' back to shame an' ruin."
They were at home by this time, and she opened the door to let the girl walk in before her.
"Get thee inside, Liz," she said. "I mun hear what tha has to say, fur I conna rest i' fear for thee. I am na angered, fur I pity thee too much. Tha art naught but a choild at th' best, an' th' world is fu' o' traps an' snares."
