I dunnot think—if owt wur to happen me now—as tha'd ha' hard thowts o' me. Wouldst tha?" wistfully.
"Nay, lass. I've been fond o' thee, an' sorry fur thee, and if tha wur to dee tha mayst mak' sure I'd noan be hard on thee. But tha art na goin' to dee, I hope."
To her surprise the girl caught her hand, and, pulling it down upon her knee, laid her cheek against it and burst into tears.
"I dunnot know; I mought, or—or—summat. But nivver tha turn agen me, Joan,—nivver tha hate me. I am na loike thee,—I wur na made loike thee. I conna stand up agen things, but I dunnot think as I'm so bad as foaks say!"
When this impassioned mood passed away, she was silent again for a long time. The baby fell asleep upon Joan's breast, but she did not move it,—she liked to feel it resting there; its close presence always seemed to bring her peace. At length, however, Liz spoke once more.
"Wheer wur thy feyther goin' wi' Spring an' Braddy?" she asked.
Joan turned a pale face toward her.
"Wheer did yo' see him wi' Spring an' Braddy?"
"Here," was Liz's reply. "He wur here this afternoon wi' em. They did na coom in, though,—they waited i' th' road, while he went i' th' back room theer fur summat. I think it wur a bottle. It wur that he coom fur, I know, fur I heerd Braddy say to him, 'Hast getten it?' an' thy feyther said, 'Ay,' an' th' other two laughed as if they wur on a spree o' some soart."
Joan rose from her chair, white and shaking.
"Tak' th' choild," she said, hoarsely. "I'm goin' out."
"Out!" cried Liz. "Nay, dunnot go out. What ails thee, Joan?"
