"The time is coming when it will not be so," she said.
The night before Joan Lowrie had spent an hour with her. She had come in on her way from her work, before going to Thwaite's, and had knelt down upon the hearth-rug to warm herself. There had been no light in the room but that of the fire, and its glow, falling upon her face, had revealed to Anice something like haggardness.
"Joan," she said, "are you ill?"
Joan stirred a little uneasily, but did not look at her as she answered:
"Nay, I am na ill; I nivver wur ill i' my loife."
"Then," said Anice, "wha—what is it that I see in your face?"
There was a momentary tremor of the finely moulded, obstinate chin.
"I'm tired out," Joan answered. "That's all," and her hand fell upon her lap.
Anice turned to the fire.
"What is it?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
Joan looked up at her,—not defiant, not bitter, not dogged,—simply in appeal against her own despair.
"Is na theer a woman's place far me i' th' world? Is it allus to be this way wi' me? Con I nivver reach no higher, strive as I will, pray as I will,—fur I have prayed? Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world?"
"Yes," said Anice, "I am sure there is."
"I've thowt as theer mun be somewheer. Sometimes I've felt sure as theer mun be, an' then agen I've been beset so sore that I ha' almost gi'en it up. If there is such a place fur me I mun find it—I mun!"
"You will find it," said Anice. "Some day, surely."
Anice thought of all this again when she glanced at Derrick. Derrick was more than usually disturbed to-day.
