“Miss,” said Mrs. Thwaite, “it wur last neet, an' you mowt ha' knocked
me down wi' a feather, fur I seed her as plain as I see yo'.”
“Then,” said Anice, “she must be in Riggan now.”
“Ay,” the woman answered, “that she mun, though wheer, God knows, I
dunnot. It wur pretty late, yo' see, an' I wur gettin' th' mester's
supper ready, an' as I turns mysen fro' th' oven, wheer I had been
stoopin' down to look at th' bit o' bacon, I seed her face agen th'
winder, starin' in at me wild loike. Ay, it wur her sure enow, poor
wench! She wur loike death itsen--main different fro' th' bit o' a soft,
pretty, leet-headed lass she used to be.”
“I will go and speak to Mr. Grace,” Anice said.
The habit of referring to Grace was growing stronger every day. She met
him not many yards away, and before she spoke to him saw that he was not
ignorant of what she had to say.
“I think you know what I am going to tell you,” she said.
“I think I do,” was his reply.
The rumor had come to him from an acquaintance of the Maxys, and he had
made up his mind to go to them at once.
“Ay,” said the mother, regarding them with rather resentful curiosity,
“she wur here this mornin'--Liz wur. She wur in a bad way enow--said
she'd been out on th' tramp fur nigh a week--seemit a bit out o' her
head. Th' mon had left her again, as she mowt ha' knowed he would. Ay,
lasses _is_ foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, bad o' th' fever. I towd
her she'd better ha' stayed theer. She wanted to know wheer Joan Lowrie
wur, an' kept axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and towd her
so.”
“Did she ask about her little child?” said Anice.
“Ay, I think she did, if I remember reet. She said summat about wantin'
to know wheer we'd put it, an' if Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seem
to be th' choild she cared about so much as Joan Lowrie.”
“Did you tell her where we buried it?” Grace asked.
“Ay.”
“Thank you. I will go to the church-yard,” he said to Anice. “I may find
her there.”
“Will you let me go too?” Anice asked.
He paused a moment
“I am afraid that it would be best that I should go alone.”
“Let me go,” she pleaded. “Don't be afraid for me. I could not stay
away. Let me go--for Joan's sake.”
So he gave way, and they passed out together. But they did not find her
in the church-yard. The gate had been pushed open and hung swinging on
its hinges. There were fresh footprints upon the damp clay of the path
that led to the corner where the child lay, and when they approached
the little mound they saw that something had been dropped upon the grass
near it. It was a thin, once gay-colored, little red shawl. Anice bent
down and picked it up. “She has been here,” she said.
It was Anice who, after this, first thought of going to the old cottage
upon the Knoll Road. The afternoon was waning when they left the
church-yard; when they came within sight of the cottage the sun had sunk
behind the hills. In the red, wintry light, the place looked terribly
desolate. Weeds had sprung up about the house, and their rank growth
covered the very threshold, the shutters hung loose and broken, and a
damp greenness had crept upon the stone step.
A chill fell upon her when they stood before the gate and saw what was
within. Something besides the clinging greenness had crept upon the
step,--something human,--a homeless creature, who might have staggered
there and fallen, or who might have laid herself there to die. It was
Liz, lying with her face downward and with her dead hand against the
closed door.