That Lass O' Lowrie's. Frances Hodgson Burnett

managed to free one of her small hands, and held it out to him.

      She had arrived earlier than had been expected, it turned out, and through some mysterious chance or other, her letters to her friends had not preceded her, so there was no carriage in waiting, and but for Derrick she would have been thrown entirely upon her own resources. But after their mutual introduction the two were friends at once, and before he had put her into the cab, Derrick had begun to understand what it was that led the Reverend Paul to think her an exceptional girl. She knew where her trunks were, and was quite definite upon the subject of what must be done with them. Though pretty and frail looking enough, there was no suggestion of helplessness about her. When she was safely seated in the cab, she spoke to Derrick through the open window.

      “If you will come to the Rectory to-night, and let papa thank you,” she said, “we shall all be very glad. Mr. Grace will be there, you know, and I have a great many questions to ask which I think you must be able to answer.”

      Derrick went back to his work, thinking about Miss Barholm, of course. She was different from other girls, he felt, not only in her fragile frame and delicate face, but with another more subtle and less easily defined difference. There was a suggestion of the development in a child of the soul of a woman.

      Going down to the mine, Derrick found on approaching that there was some commotion among the workers at the pit's mouth, and before he turned in to his office, he paused upon the threshold for a few minutes to see what it meant. But it was not a disturbance with which it was easy for an outsider to interfere. A knot of women drawn away from their work by some prevailing excitement, were gathered together around a girl—a pretty but pale and haggard creature, with a helpless, despairing face—who stood at bay in the midst of them, clasping a child to her bosom—a target for all eyes. It was a wretched sight, and told its own story.

      “Wheer ha' yo' been, Liz?” Derrick heard two or three voices exclaim at once. “What did you coom back for? This is what thy handsome face has browt thee to, is it?”

      And then the girl, white, wild-eyed and breathless with excitement, turned on them, panting, bursting into passionate tears.

      “Let me a-be:” she cried, sobbing. “There's none of yo' need to talk. Let me a-be! I didna coom back to ax nowt fro' none on you! Eh Joan! Joan Lowrie?”

      Derrick turned to ascertain the meaning of this cry of appeal, but almost before he had time to do so, Joan herself had borne down upon the group; she had pushed her way through it, and was standing in the centre, confronting the girl's tormentors in a flame of wrath, and Liz was clinging to her.

      “What ha' they been sayin' to yo', lass?” she demanded. “Eh! but yo're a brave lot, yo' are—women yo' ca' yo'rsens!—badgerin' a slip o' a wench loike this.”

      “I did na coom back to ax nowt fro' noan o' them,” sobbed the girl. “I'd rayther dee ony day nor do it! I'd rayther starve i' th' ditch—an' it's comin' to that.”

      “Here,” said Joan, “gi' me th' choild.”

      She bent down and took it from her, and then stood up before them all, holding it high in her strong arms—so superb, so statuesque, and yet so womanly a figure, that a thrill shot through the heart of the man watching her.

      “Lasses,” she cried, her voice fairly ringing, “do yo' see this? A bit o' a helpless thing as canna answer back yo're jeers! Aye! look at it well, aw' on yo'. Some on yo's getten th' loike at whoam. An' when yo've looked at th' choild, look at th' mother! Seventeen year owd, Liz is, an' th' world's gone wrong wi' her. I wunnot say as th' world's gone ower reet wi' ony on us; but them on us as has had th' strength to howd up agen it, need na set our foot on them as has gone down. Happen theer's na so much to choose betwixt us after aw. But I've gotten this to tell yo'—them as has owt to say o' Liz, mun say it to Joan Lowrie!”

      Rough, and coarsely pitiless as the majority of them were, she had touched the right chord. Perhaps the bit of the dramatic in her championship of the girl had as much to do with the success of her half-commanding appeal as anything else. But at least, the most hardened of them faltered before her daring, scornful words, and the fire in her face. Liz would be safe enough from them henceforth, it was plain.

      That evening while arranging his papers before going home, Derrick was called from his work by a summons at the office door, and going to open it, he found Joan Lowrie standing there, looking half abashed, half determined.

      “I ha' summat to ax yo',” she said briefly, declining his invitation to enter and be seated.

      “If there is anything I can do for—” began Derrick.

      “It is na mysen,” she interrupted him. “There is a poor lass as I'm fain to help, if I could do it, but I ha' not th' power. I dunnot know of any one as has, except yo'rsen and th' parson, an' I know more o' yo' than I do o' th' parson, so I thowt I'd ax yo' to speak to him about th' poor wench, an ax him if he could get her a bit o' work as ud help to keep her honest.”

      Derrick looked at her handsome face gravely, curiously.

      “I saw you defend this girl against some of her old companions, a few hours ago, I believe,” he said.

      She colored, but did not return his glance.

      “I dunnot believe in harryin' women down th' hill,” she said.

      Then, suddenly, she raised her eyes.

      “Th' little un is a little lass,” she said, “an' I canna bide th' thowt o' what moight fa' on her if her mother's life is na an honest un—I canna bide the thowt on it.”

      “I will see my friend to-night,” said Derrick, “and I will speak to him. Where can he find the girl?”

      “Wi' me,” she answered. “I'm taken both on 'em whoam wi' me.”

CHAPTER III - The Reverend Harold Barholm

       Table of Contents

      When the Reverend Paul entered the parlor at the Rectory, he found that his friend had arrived before him. Mr. Barholm, his wife and Anice, with their guest, formed a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glance that Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the centre figure. He was talking and the others were listening—Mr. Barholm in his usual restless fashion, Mrs. Barholm with evident interest, Anice leaning forward on her ottoman, listening eagerly.

      “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Barholm, when the servant announced the visitor, “this is fortunate. Here is Grace. Glad to see you, Grace. Take a seat We are talking about an uncommonly interesting case. I dare say you know the young woman.”

      Anice looked up.

      “We are talking about Joan Lowrie,” she said. “Mr. Derrick is telling us about her.”

      “Most interesting affair—from beginning to end,” continued the Rector, briskly. “Something must be done for the young woman. We must go and see her—I will go and see her myself.”

      He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, self-secure style. Ecclesiastical patronage would certainly set this young woman right at once. There was no doubt of that. And who was so well qualified to bestow it as himself?

      “Yes, yes! I will go myself,” he said. “That kind of people is easily managed, when once one understands them. There really is some good in them, after all. You see, Grace, it is as I have told you—only understand them, and make them understand you, and the rest is easy.”

      Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear eyes of the girl rested on the man with a curious expression.

      “Do you think,” she said quickly, “that they like us to go and see them in that sort of way, papa? Do you think it is wise to remind them that we know more than they do, and that if they want