The next morning, on her way downstairs to the breakfast-room, Anice Barholm was met by a servant.
"The young woman from the mines would like to see you, Miss," said the girl.
Anice found Joan awaiting her below.
"I ha' come to tell yo'," she said, "that th' little un deed at midneet. Theer wur no one I could ca' in. I sat alone wi' it i' th' room aw th' neet, an' then I left it to come here."
Anice and Thwaite's wife returned home with her. What little there was to be done, they remained to do. But this was scarcely more than to watch with her until the pretty baby face was hidden away from human sight.
When all was over, Joan became restless. The presence of the child had saved her from utter desolation, and now that it was gone, the emptiness of the house chilled her. At the last, when her companions were about to leave her, she broke down.
"I conna bear it," she said. "I will go wi' yo'."
Thwaite's wife had proposed before that she should make her home with them; and now, when Mrs. Thwaite returned to Biggan, Joan accompanied her, and the cottage was locked up.
This alteration changed greatly the routine of her life. There were children in the Thwaite household—half a dozen of them—who, having overcome their first awe or her, had learned before the baby died to be fond of Joan. Her handsome face attracted them when they ceased to fear its novelty; and the hard-worked mother said to her neighbors:
"She's getten a way wi' childer, somehow,—that lass o' Lowrie's. Yo'd wonder if yo' could see her wi' 'em. She's mony a bit o' help to me."
