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 his startled glance with a pride which defied him to pity or question her. But his sympathy and interest must have stirred her, for the next minute her manner softened. “I've done it often,” she added, “an' nowts nivver feared me. Yo' need na care, Mester, I'm used to it.”
“But I cannot go away and leave you here,” he said.
“You canna do no other,” she answered.
“Have you no friends?” he ventured hesitatingly.
“No, I ha' not,” she said, hardening again, and she turned away as if she meant to end the discussion. But he would not leave her. The spirit of determination was as strong in his character as in her own. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and, writing a few lines upon it, handed it to her. “If you will take that to Thwates' wife,” he said, “there will be no necessity for your remaining out of doors all night.”
She took it from him mechanically; but when he finished speaking, her calmness left her. Her hand began to tremble, and then her whole frame, and the next instant the note fell to the ground, and she dropped into her old place again, sobbing passionately and hiding her face on her arms.
“I wunnot tak' it!” she cried. “I wunnot go no wheer an' tell as I'm turned loike a dog into th' street.”
Her misery and shame shook her like a tempest. But she subdued herself at last.
“I dunnot see as yo' need care,” she protested half resentfully. “Other folk dunnot. I'm left to mysen most o' toimes.” Her head fell again and she trembled from head to foot.
“But I do care!” he returned. “I cannot leave you here and will not. If you will trust me and do as I tell you, the people you go to need know nothing you do not choose to tell them.”
It was evident that his determination made her falter, and seeing this he followed up his advantage and so far improved it that at last, after a few more arguments, she rose slowly and picked up the fallen paper.
“If I mun go, I mun,” she said, twisting it nervously in her fingers, and then there was a pause, in which she plainly lingered to say something, for she stood before him with a restrained air and downcast face. She broke the silence herself, however, suddenly looking up and fixing her large eyes full upon him.
“If I was a lady,” she said, “happen I should know what to say to yo'; but bein' what I am, I dunnot. Happen as yo're a gentleman yo' know what I'd loike to say an' canna—happen yo' do.”
Even as she spoke, the instinct of defiance in her nature struggled against that of gratitude; but the finer instinct conquered.
“We will not speak of thanks,” he said. “I may need help some day, and come to you for it.”
“If yo' ivver need help at th' pit will yo' come to me?” she demanded. “I've seen th' toime as I could ha' gi'en help to th' Mesters ef I'd had th' moind. If yo'll promise that——”
“I will promise it,” he answered her.
“An' I'll promise to gi' it yo',” eagerly. “So that's settled. Now I'll go my ways. Good neet to yo'.”
“Good night,” he returned, and uncovering with as grave a courtesy as he might have shown to the finest lady in the land, or to his own mother or sister, he stood at the road-side and watched her until she was out of sight.
CHAPTER II. - “Liz”
“Th' owd lad's been at his tricks again,” was the rough comment made on Joan Lowrie's appearance when she came down to her work the next morning; but Joan looked neither right nor left, and went to her place without a word. Not one among them had ever heard her speak of her miseries and wrongs, or had known her to do otherwise than ignore the fact that their existence was well known among her fellow-workers.
When Derrick passed her on his way to his duties, she looked up from her task with a faint, quick color, and replied to his courteous gesture with a curt yet not ungracious nod. It was evident that not even her gratitude would lead her to encourage any advances. But, notwithstanding this, he did not feel repelled or disappointed. He had learned enough of Joan, in their brief interview, to prepare him to expect no other manner from her. He was none the less interested in the girl because he found himself forced to regard her curiously and critically, and at a distance.
He watched her as she went about her work, silent, self-contained and solitary.
“That lass o' Lowrie's!” said a superannuated old collier once, in answer to a remark of Derrick's. “Eh! hoo's a rare un, hoo is! Th' fellys is haaf feart on her. Tha' sees hoo's getten a bit o' skoolin'. Hoo con read a bit, if tha'll believe it, Mester,” with a touch of pride.
“Not as th' owd chap ivver did owt fur her i' that road,” the speaker went on, nothing loath to gossip with 'one o' th' Mesters.' “He nivver did nowt fur her but spend her wage
