"No, indeed," Joyce said. "No; I know what it is to be proud of one, and to----" Her voice broke down, and Piers said:

"She ought to go away, Joyce; she can't be left here."

But Joyce seemed to be thinking for a few minutes. Here was a girl whose father had, as everyone thought, been the cause of her father's death; here was the daughter of this man, coming to her and begging to be taken into the house, to be her servant? Was it possible?

With a discretion far beyond her years, Joyce said, "I will make inquiries about you from the school mistress, and if I find you really bear a good character, I will get you a place, and----"

"I want no place apart from _you_" the girl said, pa.s.sionately. "If I could die to undo my father's wicked deed, I would die, and," she added, sadly, "it ain't much I have to live for now the baby's gone. But if you won't take me, well, I'll tramp to Bristol; and if I can't get bread in an honest way, I must get it somehow else."

"No, no; don't say that. I must consider and think, and if I can take you I will. Mrs. More is so ill, so ill that it is feared she will not live, so I can't write to her. But I will _think_, and," she added, in a low voice, "I will pray about it. I am in great trouble myself; we are all in great trouble."

"I know it, I know it. Oh! dear lady, ever since night and day, night and day, I have prayed for you, and that G.o.d would keep you."

There was something in the girl's despairing voice which touched Joyce to the heart.

"Come round to the kitchen door with me," she said, "and I will see that you have rest and food. I am sure you want both."

"I don't want rest; there is no rest in me, and food chokes me."

But Joyce took no notice of this, and saying, decidedly, "follow me,"

she put her hand on Piers' shoulder, and they went through the plantation to the house, skirting it to the left instead of crossing it, and so round to the stable-yard and the back premises.

Mrs. Falconer never had old maid servants; she trained girls to fill the places in her household, and of these, there was an endless stream pa.s.sing through. The two in the kitchen now were both kindly, good-tempered girls, utterly ignorant, but simple-hearted and honest.

"I want this poor young woman," Joyce said, "to rest by the fire; and give her her supper before she leaves. Sarah, do you hear me?" Joyce said.

"Yes, miss, I hear," Sarah said, surveying the poor, forlorn girl with scorn. "Yes, miss. I don't know whether missis would hold with taking in a tramp like her."

"I am going to ask mother now," Joyce said; "and I know you are kind-hearted, Sarah, and that you will attend to this poor girl, because I wish it."

Sarah gave a low sound, which was taken for consent; and Joyce, judging rightly that Susan Priday would be better left to the servants, went to find her mother.

As she crossed the hall she met Ralph.

"There are letters from Italy," he said. "Melville had not heard when he wrote."

"Where are the letters?" Joyce asked.

"Mother has them. There is one for you--not from Italy though; it has the Bristol post-mark, and is franked. There was an immense deal to pay for Melville's."

Joyce waited to hear no more, but went to her mother. She was sitting with her son's letter open before her. It began, "Dear father and mother," and these words went like a knife through Joyce's heart.

Mrs. Falconer sat day after day in the same chair by the fire-place. Her large widow's cap--in those days an immense erection of many thick frillings, and with long "weepers" falling over her shoulders--altered her so entirely, scarcely any one would have recognised her.

Joyce glanced through the letter. It was as self-sufficient and trifling as ever. Melville found foreign travel less delightful than he had expected.

The diligence was then the universal mode of transit through France, and the two travellers had taken a whole month to reach Hyeres, a journey which can now be got through in three days at the longest calculation.

Melville complained of the food and the cramped diligence, and how the smell of garlic made him sick; and how old Crawford was as "stiff as starch," and that he did not think he should stay away long.

Of Genoa la Superba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres.

Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said:

"Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large work-box, which stood unused by her side.

Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said:

"Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?"

"You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter.

"You can do as you like--my day is over."

"Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is--it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you--and upon us all--that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort."

"Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father--and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!"

"You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm."

"As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it."

"Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does."

Mrs. Falconer sighed.

"Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings."

"Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins for you, mother."

Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered:

"You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for you, sitting here day after day."

"I can do nothing else," was the reply--"nothing else. What else should I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was always right."

There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor Mrs. Falconer's; or rather, I should say, there is nothing harder to meet than a grief which refuses to recognise love in the midst of anguish which hardens and, as it were, paralyzes the whole being; changes the fountain of sweetness into bitterness; making the accustomed routine of duty impossible and falling on the sufferer like a heavy pall.

"Missus is like somebody else; can't believe it is missus at all," the maids said, when Joyce returned with the orders for poor Susan to remain all night, and to be cared for till the morning.

The poor girl was so utterly exhausted that she had fallen asleep, her face hidden on her arm, her elbows on the kitchen table; and her att.i.tude of utter helplessness touched Joyce.

"Be kind to her," she said; "she is very unhappy. Be kind to her, Sarah.

I know you _will_ be kind to her as I wish it."

Then Joyce ran to her room and took the letter from her pocket.

The evening was closing in fast, but kneeling on the window-seat, she opened the lattice, and all the daylight yet lingering in the west fell upon the clearly written page of Bath post paper.