the pit, are they?” he answered. “Dear me! I might have remembered that they would be at this time. Well, well; I will take a seat, my girl, and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister at the church—Mr. Barholm?”
Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe-begone, stood up before him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself.
“I—I dunnot know nobody much now,” she stammered. “I—I've been away fro' Riggan sin' afore yo' comn—if yo're th' new parson,” and then she colored nervously and became fearfully conscious of her miserable little burden, “I've heerd Joan speak o' th' young parson,” she faltered.
Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, childish creature she was, with her pretty face, and her baby, and her characterless, frightened way. She was only one of many—poor Liz, ignorant, emotional, weak, easily led, ready to err, unable to bear the consequences of error, not strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not strong enough to be anything in particular, but that which her surroundings made her. If she had been well-born and well brought up, she would have been a pretty, insipid girl, who needed to be taken care of; as it was, she had “gone wrong.” The excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she must be awakened.
“You are the girl Elizabeth?” he said.
“I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes,” she answered, pulling at the hem of her child's small gown, “but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz.”
Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. “Sit down,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”
Liz obeyed him; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distaste and hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap; her fingers were busy plaiting up folds of the little gown.
“I dunnot want to be talked to,” she whimpered. “I dunnot know as talk can do folk as is i' trouble any good—an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'out talk.”
“We must remember whence the trouble comes,” answered the minister, “and if the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we must bear our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the fountain head. We must ask for grace, and—and sanctification of spirit.”
“I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head,” sobbed Liz aggrieved. “I amna religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methody nivver did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want Joan Lowrie is na a Methody.”
“If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I am sorry to hear it,” with increased gravity of demeanor. “Without the redeeming blood how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the Cross you would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, my girl, that this,” with a motion toward the frail creature on her knee, “is a very terrible thing.”
Liz burst into piteous sobs—crying like an abused child:
“I know it's hard enow,” she cried; “I canna get work neyther at th' pit nor at th' factories, as long as I mun drag it about, an' I ha' not got a place to lay my head, on'y this. If it wur na for Joan, I might starve, and the choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I—I wur very fond o' him—I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' me, an' he wur a gentleman too. He were no laboring-man, an' he wur kind to me, until he got tired. Them sort allus gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. I wish I'd ha' towd Joan at first, an' axed her what to do.”
Barholm passed his hand through his hair uneasily. This shallow, inconsequent creature baffled him. Her shame, her grief, her misery, were all mere straws eddying on the pool of her discomfort. It was not her sin that crushed her, it was the consequence of it; hers was not a sorrow, it was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosperous outwardly, she would have felt no inward pang.
It became more evident to him than ever that something must be done, and he applied himself to his task of reform to the best of his ability. But he exhausted his repertory of sonorous phrases in vain. His grave exhortations only called forth fresh tears, and a new element of resentment; and, to crown all, his visit terminated with a discouragement of which his philosophy had never dreamed.
In the midst of his most eloquent reproof, a shadow darkened the threshold, and as Liz looked up with the explanation—“Joan!” a young woman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her throat bare, her fustian jacket hanging over her arm. She glanced from one to the other questioningly, knitting her brows slightly at the sight of Liz's tears. In answer to her glance Liz spoke querulously.
“It's th' parson, Joan,” she said. “He comn to talk like th' rest on 'em an' he maks me out too ill to burn.”
Just at that moment the child set up a fretful cry and Joan crossed the room and took it up in her arms.
“Yo've feart th' choild betwixt yo',” she said, “if yo've managed to do nowt else.”
“I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish,” explained Barholm somewhat curtly, “I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, to endeavor to bring your friend to a proper sense of her position.”
Joan turned toward him.
“Has tha done it?” she asked.
The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying out.
“I—I—” he stammered.
Joan interrupted him.
“Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?” she demanded. “I dunnot mysen.”
“I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve her mental condition,” the minister replied.
“I thowt as much,” said Joan; “I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but if yo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it 'll do yo' fur this toime, an' yo' can let her be for a while.”
Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as it invariably did.
“I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice,” he said.
Anice looked up questioningly.
“Why?” she asked.
“I went to see Joan Lowrie this morning,” he answered hesitatingly, “and I am very much disappointed in her. I scarcely think, after all, that I would advise you to take her in hand. She is not an amiable young woman. In fact there is a positive touch of the vixen about her.”
CHAPTER IV - “Love Me, Love My Dog”
Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turning to Anice for it, when he required information concerning people and things. In her desultory pilgrimages, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was deaf to. The rough,
