tramp fur nigh a week—seemit a bit out o' her head. Th' mon had left her again, as she mowt ha' knowed hewould. Ay, lasses is foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, bad o' th' fever. I towd her she'd better ha' stayed theer. She wanted to know wheer Joan Lowrie wur, an' kept axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and towd her so."
"Did she ask about her little child?" said Anice.
"Ay, I think she did, if I remember reet. She said summat about wantin' to know wheer we'd put it, an' if Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seem to be th' choild she cared about so much as Joan Lowrie."
"Did you tell her where we buried it?" Grace asked.
"Ay."
"Thank you. I will go to the church-yard," he said to Anice. "I may find her there."
"Will you let me go too?" Anice asked.
He paused a moment.
"I am afraid that it would be best that I should go alone."
"Let me go," she pleaded. "Don't be afraid for me. I could not stay away. Let me go—for Joan's sake."
So he gave way, and they passed out together. But they did not find her in the church-yard. The gate had been pushed open and hung swinging on its hinges. There were fresh footprints upon the damp clay of the path that led to the corner where the child lay, and when they approached the little mound they saw that something had been dropped upon the grass near it. It was a thin, once gay-colored, little red shawl. Anice bent down and picked it up. "She has been here," she said.
It was Anice who, after this, first thought of going to the old cottage upon the Knoll Koad. The afternoon was
