That Lass O' Lowrie's. Frances Hodgson Burnett

a letter, Grace?” said Derrick with a smile.

      “A letter! Oh dear, no! She has never written me a letter. They are always notes with some sort of business object. She has very decided views on the subject of miscellaneous letter-writing.”

      He read the note himself and then handed it to Derrick.

      It was a compact, decided hand, free from the suspicion of an unnecessary curve.

      “Dear Mr. Grace—

       “Many thanks for the book. You are very kind indeed. Pray

       let us hear something more about your people. I am afraid

       papa must find them very discouraging, but I cannot help

       feeling interested. Grandmamma wishes to be remembered to

       you,

       “With more thanks,

       “Believe me your friend,

       “Anice Barholm.”

      Derrick refolded the note and handed it back to his friend. To tell the truth, it did not impress him very favorably. A girl not yet twenty years old, who could write such a note as this to a man who loved her, must be rather too self-contained and well balanced.

      “You have never told me much of this story, Grace,” he said.

      “There is not much to tell,” answered the curate, flushing again. “She is the Rector's daughter. I have known her three years. You remember I wrote to you about meeting her while you were in India. As for the rest, I do not exactly understand myself how it is that I have gone so far, having so—so little encouragement—in fact having had no encouragement at all; but, however that is, it has grown upon me, Derrick—my feeling for her has grown into my life. She has never cared for me. I am quite sure of that, you see. Indeed, I could hardly expect it. It is not her way to care for men as they are likely to care for her, though it will come some day, I suppose—with the coming man,” half smiling. “She is simply what she signs herself here, my friend Anice Barholm, and I am thankful for that much. She would not write even that if she did not mean it.”

      “Bless my soul,” broke in Derrick, tossing back his head impatiently; “and she is only nineteen yet, you say?”

      “Only nineteen,” said the curate, with simple trustfulness in his friend's sympathy, “but different, you know, from any other woman I have ever seen.”

      The tea and toast came in then, and they sat down together to partake of it Derrick knew Anice quite well before the meal was ended, and yet he had not asked many questions. He knew how Grace had met her at her father's house—an odd, self-reliant, very pretty and youthful-looking little creature, with the force and decision of half a dozen ordinary women hidden in her small frame; how she had seemed to like him; how their intimacy had grown; how his gentle, deep-rooted passion had grown with it; how he had learned to understand that he had nothing to hope for.

      “I am a little fearful for the result of her first visit here,” said Grace, pushing his cup aside and looking troubled. “I cannot bear to think of her being disappointed and disturbed by the half-savage state in which these people live. She knows nothing of the mining districts. She has never been in Lancashire, and they have always lived in the South. She is in Kent now, with Mrs. Barholm's mother. And though I have tried, in my short letters to her, to prepare her for the rough side of life she will be obliged to see, I am afraid it is impossible for her to realize it, and it may be a shock to her when she comes.”

      “She is coming to Riggan then?” said Derrick.

      “In a few weeks. She has been visiting Mrs. Galloway since the Rector gave up his living at Ashley wolde, and Mrs. Barholm told me to-day that she spoke in her last letter of coming to them.”

      The moon was shining brightly when Derrick stepped out into the street later in the evening, and though the air was somewhat chill it was by no means unpleasant. He had rather a long walk before him. He disliked the smoke and dust of the murky little town, and chose to live on its outskirts; but he was fond of sharp exercise, and regarded the distance between his lodging and the field of his daily labor as an advantage.

      “I work off a great deal of superfluous steam between the two places,” he said to Grace at the door. “The wind coming across Boggart Brow has a way of scattering and cooling restless plans and feverish fancies, that is good for a man. Half a mile of the Knoll Road is often enough to blow all the morbidness out of a fellow.”

      To-night by the time he reached the corner that turned him upon the Knoll Road, his mind had wandered upon an old track, but it had been drawn there by a new object—nothing other than Joan Lowrie, indeed. The impression made upon him by the story of Joan and her outcast life was one not easy to be effaced. The hardest miseries in the lot of a class in whom he could not fail to be interested, were grouped about that dramatic figure. He was struck, too, by a painful sense of incongruity.

      “If she had been in this other girl's niche,” he said, “if she had lived the life of this Anice——”

      But he did not finish his sentence. Something, not many yards beyond him, caught his eye—a figure seated upon the road-side near a collier's cottage—evidently a pit girl in some trouble, for her head was bowed upon her hands, and there was a dogged sort of misery expressed in her very posture.

      “A woman,” he said aloud. “What woman, I wonder. This is not the time for any woman to be sitting here alone.”

      He crossed the road at once, and going to the girl, touched her lightly on the shoulder.

      “My lass,” he said good-naturedly, “what ails you?”

      She raised her head slowly as if she were dizzy and bewildered. Her face was disfigured by a bruise, and on one temple was a cut from which the blood trickled down her cheek; but the moonlight showed him that it was Joan. He removed his hand from her shoulder and drew back a pace.

      “You have been hurt!” he exclaimed.

      “Aye,” she answered deliberately, “I've had a hurt—a bad un.”

      He did not ask her how she had been hurt. He knew as well as if she had told him, that it had been done in one of her father's fits of drunken passion. He had seen this sort of thing before during his sojourn in the mining districts. But, shamefully repulsive as it had been to him, he had never felt the degradation of it as fiercely as he did now.

      “You are Joan Lowrie?” he said.

      “Aye, I'm Joan Lowrie, if it 'll do yo' ony good to know.”

      “You must have something done to that cut upon your temple.”

      She put up her hand and wiped the blood away, as if impatient at his persistence.

      “It 'll do well enow as it is,” she said.

      “That is a mistake,” he answered. “You are losing more blood than you imagine. Will you let me help you?”

      She stirred uneasily.

      Derrick took no notice of the objection. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and, after some little effort, managed to stanch the bleeding, and having done so, bound the wound up. Perhaps something in his sympathetic silence and the quiet consideration of his manner touched Joan. Her face, upturned almost submissively, for the moment seemed tremulous, and she set her lips together. She did not speak until he had finished, and then she rose and stood before him immovable as ever.

      “Thank yo',” she said in a suppressed voice, “I canna say no more.”

      “Never mind that,” he answered, “I could have done no less. If you could go home now——”

      “I shall na go whoam to neet,” she interrupted him.

      “You cannot remain out of doors!” he exclaimed.

      “If I do, it wunnot be th' first toime,” meeting