"I conna sleep yet a while," she said. "Dunnot let it trouble yo'. I'm used to it." Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow eyes following her as she moved about the room, and fixed hungrily upon her when she stood near him. 66 "Who are you?" he would say. have seen you before, and I know your face; but-but I have lost your name. Who are you?" One night, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the room,-Grace having gone down-stairs for something,-she was startled by the sound of Derrick's voice falling with a singular distinctness upon the silence. "Who is it that is standing there?" he said. "Do I know you? Yes—it is—" but before he could finish, the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had wandered off again into low, disjointed murmurings. It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. There was something he must do or say,-some decision he must reach. Must he give up? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go Perhaps he had better go away, far away. Yes; he had better go. No, he could not,-he must wait and think again. He was tired of thinking,tired of reasoning and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour of rest. He was full of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary round once more. "He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late, too much responsibility," said the medical man; "and it is going rather against him." CHAPTER XXXVII. THE turning-point was reached at last. One evening, at the close of his usual visit, the doctor said to Grace: "To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. I should not be surprised to find on my next visit that his mind had become permanently cleared. The intervals of half consciousness have become lengthened. Unless some entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that the worst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't let the young woman leave the room." That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange experience through which these two passed together. If Anice had not known the truth before, she would have learned it then. Again and again Derrick went the endless round of his miseries. How must it end? How could it end? What must he do? How black and narrow the passages were! There she was, coming toward him from the other end,—and if the props gave way! They were giving way!— Good God! the light was out, and he was held fast by the mass which had fallen upon him. What must he do about her whom he loved, and who was separated from him by this horrible wall? He was dying, and she would never know what he wanted to tell her. What was it that he wanted to say,That he loved her,-loved her,-loved her! Could she hear him? He must make her hear him before he died," Joan! Joan!" Thus he raved for hour after hour; and the two sat and listened, often in dead silence; but at last there rose in Joan Lowrie's face a look of such intense and hopeless pain, that Anice spoke. "Joan! my poor Joan!" she said. Joan's head sank down upon her hands. "I mun go away fro' Riggan," she whispered. "I mun go away afore he knows. Theer's no help fur me." "No help?" repeated Anice after her. "Theer's none," said Joan. "Dunnot yo' see as ony place wheer he is con be no place fur me? I thowt-I thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, but it is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong?" Anice wrung her hands together. "A wrong?" she cried. "Not a wrong, Joan-I cannot let you call it that." "It would na be nowt else. Am I fit wife fur a gentlemon? wife fur a gentlemon? Nay, my work's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' day to-morrow morning, it's done then." "You do not mean,” said Anice, “that you will leave us?" "I conna stay i' Riggan; I mun go away." Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less until his voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of intense relief. "The worst is over," he said; may hope for the best." 66 now we "Ay," Joan answered, quietly, "th' worst | pened. is ower-fur him." At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and then the gray sky showed long slender streaks of wintry red, gradually widening and deepening until all the east seemed flushed. "It's mornin'," said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. "I mun gi' him th' drops again." .She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlight poured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep to a full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his delirium had died out; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he had no power to speak and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. It seemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it. "He's awake," Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on the other side of the room. "Will one on yo' pour out th' medicine? My hand's noan steady." Grace went to the bedside hurriedly. "Derrick," he said, bending down, "do you know me ?” "Yes," Derrick answered in a faltering whisper, and as he said it the bedroom door closed. Both of them heard it. A shadow fell upon the sick man's face. His eyes met his friend's with a question in them, and the next instant the question put itself into words: He had so many half recollections to tantalize him. He could remember his last definite sensation,-a terrible shock, flinging him to the ground, a second of pain and horror, and then utter oblivion. Had he awakened one night and seen Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and called out to her, and then lost himself? Had he awakened for a second or so again and seen her standing close to his pillow, looking down at him with an agony of dread in her face? In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she had been with him from the first. How had it happened? This he asked himself again and again, until he grew feverish over it. "Above all things," he heard the doctor say, "don't let him talk and don't talk to him." But Grace comprehended something of his mental condition. "I see by your look that you wish to question me," he said to him. "Have patience for a few days and then I will answer every question you may ask. to rest upon that assurance." Try There was one question, however, which would not wait. Grace saw it lying in the eager eyes and answered it. "Joan Lowrie," he said, "has gone home." Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. The children crowded about her, neighbors dropped in, both men and women, wanting to have a word with her. There were few of them who had not met with some loss by the explosion, and there were those among them who had cause to remember the girl's daring. "How's th' engineer ?" they asked. "What do th' doctors say on him?" "He'll get better," she answered. "They say as he's out o' danger." "Wur na it him as had his head on yore knee when yo' come up i' th' cage?" said one woman. Mrs. Thwaite answered for her with some sharpness. They should not gossip about Joan, if she could help it. "I dunnot suppose as she knowd th' difference betwixt one mon an' another," she said. "It wur na loikely as she'd pick and choose. Let th' lass ha' a bit o' quiet, wenches. Yo' moither her wi' yore talk." "It's an ill wind as blows nobody good," said Thwaite himself. "Th' explosion has done one thing-it's made th' mesters change their minds. They're i' th' humor to do what th' engineer axed far, now." "Ay," said a tired-looking woman, whose poor attempt at mourning told its own story; "but that wunnot bring my mester back." 66 Nay," said another, "nor my two lads." There had been a great deal of muttered discontent among the colliers before the accident, and since its occurrence there had | been signs of open rebellion. Then, too, results had proved that the seasonable adoption of Derrick's plan would have saved some lives at least, and, in fact, some future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, felt somewhat remorseful; a few, it is not impossible, experienced nothing more serious than annoyance and embarrassment, but it is certain that there were one or two who were crushed by a sense of personal responsibility for what had occurred. It was one of these who made the proposition that Derrick's plan be accepted unreservedly, and that the engineer himself should be requested to resume his position and undertake the management of the work. There was some slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recent that its effect had not had time to wear away, and finally the agreement was made. But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bedroom over the parlor, and the deputation from the company could only wait upon Grace, and make an effort at expressing their sympathy. After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. There was some curiosity felt concerning her. A young and handsome woman, who had taken so remarkable a part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object of interest. Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that something really ought to be done, that a visit to the heroine of the day was the immediate result. There was only one form the appreciation of a higher for a lower social grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who had been, naturally, selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan the nature of the visit. His friends of the Company had heard the story of her remarkable heroism, and had felt that something was due to her-some token of the admiration her conduct had inspired in them. They had agreed that something ought to be done, and they had called this evening to present her with a little testimonial. The bundle of crisp bank-notes burned the hand of the man who held them, as Joan Lowrie listened to this speech. She stood upright before them, resting one hand upon the back of a chair, but when the bearer of the testimonial in question rose, she made a step forward. There was more of her old self in her gesture than she had shown for months. Her eyes flashed, her face hardened, a sudden red flew to her cheek. "Put it up," she said. "I wunnot tak' it." The man who had the money laid it upon the table, as if he were anxious to be rid of it. He was in a glow of anger and shame at the false step they had made. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I see we have made a mistake." "Ay," she said, "yo' ha' made a mistake. If yo' choose to tak' that an' gi'e it to th' women an' childer as is left to want bread, yo' may do it an' welcome." CHAPTER XXXIX, THE first day Fergus Derrick was allowed to spend an hour in an easy-chair by the fire, he heard the story of his rescue from the lips of his friend, listening to it as he rested against the propping cushions. "Don't be afraid of exciting me," he had said to Grace. "I have conjectured until I am tired of it. Tell me the whole story. Let me hear the end now." Derrick's breath came quick and short as he listened, and his haggard face flushed. It was not only to his friend he owed his life, but to Joan Lowrie. "I should like to see her," he said when Grace had finished. "As for you, Grace— well-words are poor things." "They are very poor things between friends," was Grace's answer; "so let us have none of them. You are on this side of the grave, dear fellow-that is enough." During the rest of the day Derrick was silent and abstracted, but plainly full of active thought. By night-fall a feverish spot burned upon his cheek, and his pulse had quickened dangerously. "I must wait," he said to Grace, " and it is hard work." Just at that time Anice was sitting in her room at the rectory, thinking of Joan also, when there came to her the sound of footsteps in the passage and then a summons to the door. "You may come in," she said. But it was not a servant, as she had supposed; it was Joan, with a bundle upon her arm. "You are going away, Joan?" she said. "To-night ?" "Ay," Joan answered, as she came and stood upon the hearth. "I'm goin' away to-neet. "You have quite made up your mind?" "Ay," said Joan. "I mun break loose. I want to get as far fro' th' owd life as I con. I'd loike to forget th' most on it. I'm goin' to-neet, because I dunnot want to be axed questions. If I passed thro' th' town by dayleet, theer's them as ud fret me wi' their talk." "Have you seen Mr. Grace?" Anice asked. "No. I shanna ha' th' chance to say good-bye to him. I coom partly to ax yo' to say it fur me." "Yes, I will say it. I wish there were no need that I should, though. I wish I could keep you." There was a brief silence, and then Joan knelt on one knee by the fender. “I ha' bin thinkin' o' Liz," she said. "I thowt I'd ax yo'-if it wur to happen so as Early in the morning, Derrick called his friend to his bedside. "I have had a bad night," he said to him. "Yes." Grace answered. "It is easy enough to see that." There was an unnatural sparkle in the hollow eyes, and the flush upon the cheek had not faded away. Derrick tried to laugh, and moved restshe'd drift back here again while I wurlessly upon his pillow. "About away-as yo'd say a kind word to her, an' "So I should imagine," said he. "The tell her about th' choild, an' how as I nivver fact is—well, you see I have been thinkthowt hard on her, an' as th' day nivver wuring." as I did na pity her fro' th' bottom o' my soul. I'm goin' toward th' south," she said again after a while. "They say as th' south is as different fro' th' north as th' day is fro' th' neet. I ha' money enow to help me on, an' when I stop I shall look fur work." Anice's face lighted up suddenly. "To the south!" she said. "Why did I not think of that before. If you go toward the south, there is Ashley-Wold and grandmamma, Mrs. Galloway. I will write to her now, if you will let me," rising to her feet. “If yo'll gi' me th' letter, I'll tak' it an' thank yo'," said Joan. "If she could help me to work or th' loike, I should be glad enow." Anice's mother's mother had always been her safest resource in the past, and yet, curiously enough, she had not thought of turning toward her in this case until Joan's words had suggested such a course. Joan took the letter and put it in the bosom of her dress. "Theer's no more danger fur him?" she said. "Thwaite towd me he wur better." She spoke questioningly, and Anice answered her. “Yes, he is out of danger. Joan, what am I to say to him?" "To say to him!" She started slightly, but ended with a strained quietness of manner. "Yes, yes,-Grace, I cannot wait,-I must hear something. A hundred things might happen. I must at least be sure she is not far away. I shall never regain strength as long as I have not the rest that knowledge will bring me. Will you go to her and take her a few words of gratitude from me?" Grace appeared at the rectory very soon afterward, and asked for Miss Barholm. Anice came down into the parlor to meet him at once. She could not help guessing that for some reason or other he had come to speak of Joan, and his first words confirmed her impression. "I have just left the Thwaites'," he said. "I went there to see Joan Lowrie, and find that she is not there. Mrs. Thwaite told me that she had left Riggan. Is that true ? " "Yes," Anice answered. Their eyes met, and she went on : "You know we have said that it was best that she should break away entirely from the past. She has gone to try if it is possible to do it. She wants another life altogether." "I do not know what I must do," said Grace. "You say she has gone away, and I-I came to her from Derrick." "From Mr. Derrick!" Anice exclaimed; and then both relapsed into silence. It was Anice who spoke first. "Mamma was going to send some things to Mr. Derrick this morning," she said. "I will have the basket packed and take it myself. If you will let me, I will go with you as soon as I can have the things prepared." CHAPTER XL. THE interview between Anice and Derrick was a long one. When, in answer to Derrick's queries, Anice said, "She has gone to Ashley-Wold," Derrick replied: "Then I shall go to Ashley-Wold also." Grace had been called out almost immediately after his return to the house; but on his way home Anice met him, and having something to say about the school, he turned toward the rectory with her. They had not gone far, however, before they were joined by a third party,-Mr. Sammy Craddock, who was wending his way Crownward. Seeing them, Mr. Craddock hesitated for a moment, as if feeling somewhat doubtful; but as they approached him, he pulled off his hat. "I dunnot know," he said, "after aw, if it would not be as well to ha' a witness. Hope yo're nicely, Miss," affably; "an' th' same to yo', Parson. Would yo'," clearing his throat, "would yo' moind shakin' honds wi' a chap?" Grace gave him his hand. "Thank yo', Parson," said "Owd Sammy." "It's th' first toime, yo' know, but it shanna be th' last, if yo' dunnot see owt agen it. Th' truth is, as it's summat as has been on my moind fur some toime,―ivver sence th' accident, i' fact. Pluck's pluck, yo' see, whether yo're fur a mon or agen him. Yo're not mich to look at. Yo' mowt be handsomer, an' yo' mowt be likelier,-yo' mowt easily ha' more muscle, an' yo' dunnot look as if yo' wur loike to be mich i' argyment; but yo're getten a backbone o' yore own,-I'm danged if yo' ha' na." "I'm much obliged to you, I am sure,” said Grace. "Yo' need na be," answered Sammy, encouragingly. "Yo' need na be. If yo'd getten owt to be obleeged to me fur, I should na ha' so mich to say. Yo' see I'm makin' a soart o' pollygy,-a soart o' pollygy," with evident enjoyment of the word. "An' that's why I said as it mowt be as well to ha' a witness. I wur allus one as set more store by th' state than th' church, an' parsons wur na i' my line, an' happen I ha' ben a bit hard on yo', an' ha' said things as carried weight agen yo' wi' them as valleyed my opinion o' things i' general. An' sin' th' blow-up, I ha' made up my moind as I would na moind tellin' yo' as I wur agoin' to wi'draw my oppysition, sin' it seemit as if I'd made a bit o' a mistake. Yo're neyther knave nor foo', if yo' are a parson. Theer, now! Good-mornin' to yo'!" And Sammy went on his way enveloped in complacency. "Noan on 'em con say as I wur na fair," he said, shaking his head as he communed with himself. "I could na ha' done no fairer. He desarved a bit o' commendation, an' I let him ha' it. Be fair wi' a mon, say I, parson or no. th' wrong sort, after aw." An' he is na He was so well pleased with himself, that he even carried his virtue into The Crown, and diffused it abroad over his pint of sixpenny. He found it not actually unpleasant to display himself as a magnate, who, having made a most natural mistake, had been too independent and "straightforward" to let the matter rest, and consequently had gone to the magnificent length of apologetic explanation. I ha' bin havin' a word or so wi' th' little parson," he said. "I ha' ben tellin' him what I thowt o' what he did th' day o' th' blow-up. I changed my moind about th' little chap that day, an' I ha' ben tellin' him so." "Yo' ha'," in an amazed chorus. "Well, now, that theer wur a turn, Sammy." "Ay, it wur. I'm noan afeard to speak my moind one way or t'other, yo' see. When a mon shows us he's med o' th' |