THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S.

Otago Witness, Issue 1874, 21 October 1887, Page 30

THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S.

By Frances Hodgson Buiinett.

Chapter 111.

t v A Contrast. t''-A< HE following day Anice Barholm fi<sir came. Business had taken Dor//mf \*{sL rick to the station in the morale v*!sj in £' an<i * )ein £ delayed, he was 3^M^ standing upon the platform I^^vtM* wiien one of fche Loru^ on trains came in. There were gene-V^t-il rally so few passengers in such l ''C trains who were likely to stop """ at Riggan that the few who did so were of some interest to the bystanders. Accordingly he stood gazing, in rather apreoccapicd fashion, at the carriages, when the door of a first-class compartment opened, and a girl stepped out upon the platform near him. Before seeing her face one might have imagined her to be a child of scarcely more than fourteen or fifteen. This was Derrick's first impression ; but when bhe turned toward him he saw at once that it was not a child. And yet it was a small face, and a singularly youthful and lovely one, with its delicate oval features, its smooth, clear skin, and the stray locks of hazel brown hair that fell over the low forehead. She had evidently made a journey of some length, for she was encumbered with travelling wraps, and in her hands she held a little flower-pot containing a cluster of early blue A'iolets— such violets as would not bloom as far north as Riggan for weeks to come. She stood npon the platform for a moment or so, glancing up and down as if in .search of some one, and then, plainly deciding that the object of her quest had not arrived, she looked at Derrick in a business-like, questioning way. She was going to speak to him.' The next minute she stepped forward without a shadow of girlish hesitation. " Miiy I trouble you to tell me where I can find a conveyance of some sort," she said. " I waut to go to the rectory." Derrick uncovered, recognising his friend's picture at once. " I think," he said, with far more hesitancy than she had herself shown, " that this must be Miss Barholm." " Yes," she answered, " Anice Barholm. I think," she said, " from what Mr Grace has said to me, that you must be his friend." " I am one of Gracie's friends," he answered, " Fergus Derrick." She managed to free one of her small hands, and held it out to him. She had arrived earlier than had been expected, it turned out, and through some mysterious chance or other her letters to her friends had not preceded her, so there was no carriage in waiting, and but for Derrick she would have been thrown entirely upon her own resources. But after their mutual introduction the two were friends at once, and before he had put her into the cab, Derrick had began to understand what it was that led the" Reverend Paul ro think her an exceptional girl. She knew where her trunks were, and was quite definite upon the übject f 'f what must be (lone with theui. Though pretty and frail-looking enough, there was not a Mi^prestion of helplessness about, her. When she was safely seated in the cab. she f-poke to Derrick tluough the pen window. " If you will come to the rectory to-night, and let papa thank you," she said, "we

shall all be Tery glad. Mr Grace will be there, you know, and I have a great many questions to ask, which I think you must be able to answer." . Derrick went back to his wprk, thinking about Miss Barholm, of course. She was different from other girls, he felt, not only in her fragile frame and delicate face, but with another and more subtle and less easily defined difference. There was a suggestion of the development in a child of the soul of a woman. Going down to the mine, Derrick found on approaching it that there was some commotion among the workers at the pit's mouth, and before he turned into his office he paused upon the threshold for a few minutes to see what it meant. But it was not a disturbance with which it was easy for an outsider to interfere. A knot of women, drawn away from their work by some prevailing excitement, were gathered together around a girl— a pretty, but pale and I haggard creature, with a helpless, despair- ! ing face— who stood at bay in their midst, clasping a child to her bosom— a target for all eyes. It was a wretched sight, and told its own story. " Wheer ha yo' been Liz ? " Derrick heard two or three voices exclaim at once. " What did jo' coom back for? This is what thy handsome face has browt thee to, is it ?" And then the girl, white, wild-eyed, and breathless with excitement and shame, turned on them, panting, bursting into passionate tears. " Let me a-be ! " she cried, sobbing. " There's none of yo' need to talk. Let me a-be ! I did na coom back to ax nowt fro' none on you ! Eh, Joan ! Joan Lowrie ! " Derrick turned to ascertain the meaning of this cry of appeal, but almost before he had time to do so, Joan herself had borne down | upon the group ; she had pushed her way I through it, and was standing in the centre, confronting the girl's tormentors in a flame of wrath, and Liz was clinging to her. " What ha' they been sayin' to yo', lass ?" she demanded. "Eh 1 but yore a brave lot, j yo' are — women yo' ca' yo'rsens ! — badgerin' a slip o' a wench loike this." " I did na coom back to ax nowt fro' noan o' them," sobbed the girl. " I'd rayther dee J ony day nor do it ! I'd rayther starve i' th' j ditch— an' it's comin' to that." " Here," said Joan, " gi' me th' choild." She bent down and took it from her, and then stood up before them all, holding it high in her strong arms— so superb, so .statuesque, and yet so womanly a figure, that a thrill shot through the heart of the man watching her. " Lasses," she cried, her voice fairly ringing, "do yo' see this '? A bit o' a helpless thing as canna answer back yore jeers! Aye ! look at it well, aw on yo'. Some on yo's getten th' loike at whoam. An' when yo' looked at th' choild, look at th' mother ! Seventeen year owd, Liz is, an' th' world's gone wrong wi' her. I wunnot say as th' world's gone ower reet wi' ony on us ; but them on us as has had th' strength to howd up agen it need na set our foot on them as has gone down. Happen theer's na so much to choose betwixt us after aw. But I've gotten this to tell yo'— them as has owt to say of Liz, mun say it to Joan Lowrie ! " Rough and coarsely pitiless as the majority of them were, she had touched the right chord. Perhaps the bit of the dramatic in her upholding of the child, and championship of the mother, had as much to do with the success of her half-commanding appeal as anything else. But, at least, the most hardened of them faltered before hei daring, scornful words, and the fire in her face. Liz would be safe enough from them henceforth, it was plain. That evening while arranging his papers before going home, Derrick was called from his work by a summons at the office door, and going to open it, he found Joan Lowrie standing there, looking half abashed, half determined. " I ha' summat to ax yo'," she said briefly, declining his invitation to enter and be seated. "If there is anything I can do for " began Derrick. "It isna mysen," she interrupted him. " There is a poor lass as I'm fain to help, if I could do it, but I ha' not th' power. I dunnot know of anyone 2s has, except yo'rsen an th' parson, an' I know more o' yo' than I do o' th' parson, so I thowt I'd ax yo' to speak to him about th' poor wench, an' ax him if he could get her a bit o' work as ud help to keep her honest." Derrick looked at her handsome face, gravely, curiously. " I saw you defend this girl against some | of her old companions, a few hours ago, I believe, 1 ' he said. She coloured high, but did not return his glance. " I dunnot. believe in harryin' women down th' hill," she said. " I'm a woman mysen." And then, suddenly she raised her eyes. "Th' little un is a little lass," she said, "an* I canna bide th' thowt o' what moight fa' on her if her mother's life isna an honest un— l canna bide th' thowt on it." "I will see ray friend to-night," said Derrick, " and I will speak to him. Where can he find the girl 1 " " Wi' me," she answered. " I'm taken both on 'em whoam wi' me." When the Reverend Paul entered the parlour of the Rectory, he found that his friend had arrived before him. Mr Barholm, his wife, and Anice, with their guest, formed a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glance that Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the centre figure. He was talking and the rest listening— Mr Barholm in his usual restless fashion, Mrs Barholm with evident interest, Anice leaning forward on her ottoman, listening eagerly. " Ah ! " exclaimed Mr Barholm, when the servant announced the visitor, "this is fortunate. Here is Grace. Glad to see you, Grace. Take a scat. We are talking about an uncommonly interesting case. I daresay you know the young woman." Anice looked up. " We are talking about Joan Lowrie," she said. "Mr Derrick is telling us about her." "Most interesting affair— from begining to end," commented the Rector, briskly. "Something must be done for the young woman. We must, go and see her— l will go and see her myself."' He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, self-secure style. Ecclesiastical

patronage would certainly set this young woman right at once. There was no doubt of that. And who was so well qualified to bestow it as himself ? "Yes, yes! I will go myself," he said. "That kind of people is easily managed, when once one understands them. There really is some good in them, after all. You see, Grace, it is as I have told you— only understand them, and make them understand you, and the rest is easy." Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear eyes of the girl rested on the man with a curious expression. " Do you think," she said quickly, " that they like us to go and see them in that sort of way, papa ? Do you think it is wise to remind them that we know more than they do, and that if they want to learn they must learn from us, just because we have been more fortunate? It really seems to me that the rebellious ones would ask themselves what right we had to be more fortunate." " My dear," returned the Rector, somewhat testily — he was not partial to the interposition of obstacles even in suggestion — " my dear, if you had been brought into contact with these people as closely as I have, or even as Grace has, you would learn that they are not prone to regard things from a Metaphysical standpoint. Metaphysics are : not in their line. They are more apt to look j upon life as a matter of bread and bacon than as a problem." A shadow fell upon Anice's face, and before the visit eaded, Derrick had observed its presence more than once. It was always her father who summoned it, he noticed. And yet it was evident enough that she was fond j of the man, and in no ordinary degree, and that the affection was mutual. As he was contented with himself, so Barholm was contented with his domestic relations. He was fond of his wife, and fond of his daughter, as much, perhaps, through his appreciation of his own good taste in wedding such a wife, and becoming the father of such a daughter, as through his appreciation of their peculiar charms. He was proud of them and indulgent to them. They reflected a credit on him of which he felt himself wholly deserving. "They are very fond of him," remarked Grace, afterwards to his friend; "which shows that there must be a great deal of virtue in the man. Indeed, there is a great deal of virtue in him. You yourself, Derrick, must have observed a certain kindliness and — and open generosity," with a wistful sound in his voice. There was always this wistful appeal in the young man's tone when he spoke of his clerical master — a certain anxiety to make the best of him, and refrain from any suspicion of condemnation. Derrick was always reminded by it of the shadow on Anice Barholm's face. " I want to tell you something," Miss Barholm said this evening to Grace at parting. "I do not think lam afraid of Riggan at all. I think I shall like it all the better because it is so new. Everything is so earnest and energetic that it is a little bracing—like the atmosphere. Perhaps when the time comes I could do something to help you with that girl. I shall try very hard." She held out her hand to him with a smile, and the Reverend Paul went home feeling not a little comforted and encouraged. The Rector stood with his back to the fire, his portly person expressing intense satisfaction. " You will remind me about that young woman in the morning, Anice," he said. " I should like to attend to the matter myself. Singular that Grace should not have mentioned her before. It really seems to me, you know, that now and then Grace is a little deficient in interest, or energy." " Surely not interest, my dear," put in Mrs Barholm, with gentle suggestiveness. " Well, well," conceded the Rector, perhaps not interest, but energy or— or appreciation. I should have seen such a fine creature's superiority, and mentioned it at once. She must be a fine creature. A young woman, of that kind should be encouraged. I will go and see her in the morning— if it were not so late I would go now. Really, she ought to be told that she has exhibited a very excellent spirit, and that people approve of it. I wonder what sort of a household servant she would make if she were properly trained ?" " That would not do at all," put in Anice, decisively. "From the pit's mouth to the kitchen would not be a natural transition." " Well, well," as usual ; " perhaps you are right. There is plenty of time to think of it, however. We can judge better when we have seen her." He did not need reminding in the morning. He was as full of vague plans for Joan Lowrie when he arose as he had been when he went to bed. He came down to the charming breakfast room in the most sanguine of mood?. But then his moods usually were sanguine. It was scarcely to be wondered at. Fortune had treated him with great suavity ! from his earliest years. Well-born, comfortably trained, healthy and easy-natured, the world had always turned its pleasant side to him. As a young man he had been a strong, handsome fellow, whose convenient patrimony had placed him beyond the possibility of entire dependence upon his profession., When a curate, he had been well enough pai-1 »nd without private responsibilities ; when he married, he was lucky enough to win a woman who added to his comfort ; in fact, life had gone smoothly with him for so long that he had no reason to suspect Fate of any intention to treat him ill-naturedly. It was far more likely that she would reserve her scurvy tricks for some one else. Even Riggan had not disturbed him at all. Its difficulties were not such as would be likely to disturb him greatly. One found ionoranop. <™d vice, anri discomfort among the lower classes always ; there was the same thing (.0 contend with in the agricultural as in the mining districts. And the Rectory was substantial and comfortable, even picturesque. The house was roomy, the garden I largo and capable of improvement ; there wore dees in abundance, ivy on the walls, and Anico would do the rest.* The breakfast room looked specially encouraging this morning. Anice, in a pretty pale blue gown, and with a few crocuses at her throat, awaited his coming, behind the handsomest of silver and porcelain, reading his favourite newspaper the while. Her little pot of emigrant

violets' exhaled a faint, spring-like odour from their sunny place at the window ; there was a vase of crocuses, snow-drops, and ivy leaves in the centre of the table ; there was sunshine outside and comfort in. The Rector had a good appetite and an unimpaired digestion. Anice rose when he entered, and touched the bell. "Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a while," she said. " She told me we were not to wait for her." And then she brought him his newspaper and kissed him dutifully. " Very glad to see you home again, I am sure, my dear," remarked the Rector. "I have really missed you very much. What excellent coffee this is !— another cup, if you please." And, after a pause : " I think really, you know," he proceeded, " that you will not find the place unpleasant, after all. For my part, I think it is well enough— for such 'a place; one cannot expect Belgravian polish in Lancashire miners, and certainly one does not meet with it ; but it is well to make the best of things. I getalong myself reasonably well with the people. I do not encounter the difficulties Grace complains of." " Does he complain ?" asked Anice. " I did not think he exactly complained." "Grace is too easily discouraged,*' answered the Rector, in off-handed explanation. " And lie is apt to make over-sensitive blunders. He speaks of, and to, these people as if they were of the same fibre as himself. He Joes not take hold of things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but he is not good at reading character. That other young fellow, now— Derrick, the engineerwould do twice as well in his place. What do you think of that young fellow, by the way, my deai;?" " I like him," said Anice. "He will help Mr Grace often." "Grace needs a support of some kind," returned Mr Barholm, frowning slightly, " and he does not seem to rely very much upon me— not so much as I would wish. I don't quite understand him at times ; the fact is, it has struck me, once or twice, that he preferred to take his own path instead of following mine." " Papa," commented Anice, " I scarcely I think he is to blame for that. lam sure it is always best that conscientious, thinking people— and Mr Grace is a thinking manshould have paths of their own." Mr Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. His own obstinacy confronted him sometimes through Anice, in a finer, more baffling form. " Grace is a young man, my dear," he said, "—and— and ' not a very strong-minded one." ! " I cannot believe that is true," said Anice. "I do not think we can blame his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr Grace himself has more power than you and mamma and myself all put together." One of Anice s peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, but for its infinite rennement, and its earnestness, might have impressed people as being a fault. When she pushed her opposition in that steady, innocent way, Mr Barholm always took refuge behind an inner consciousness which "knew better," and was fully satisfied on the point of its own knowledge. When breakfast was over he rose from the table with the air of a man who had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to the hearth. " You are going out, I suppose," she said. " I am going to see Joan Lowrie," he said complacently. "And I have several calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that you will call on her 1 " Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of the steel fender. "Joan Lowrie ? " she said reflectively. "Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feel that we are interested in her 1 " \ " I should scarcely think— from what Mr ' Grace and his friend sa) T — that she is the kind of girl to be reached in that way," said Anice. The Rector shrugged his shoulders. "My dear," he answered, "if we are always to depend upon what Grace says, we shall often find ourselves in a difficulty. If you are going to wait until these collier young women call on you after the manner of polite society, I am afraid you will have I time to lose interest in them and their J affairs." He had no scruples of his own on the subject of his errand. He felt very comfortable, as usual, as he weaded his way through the village toward Lowrie's cottage on the Knoll road He did not ask himself what he should say to the young collier woman and her unhappy charge. Orthodox phrases with various distinct flavours— the flavour of encouragement, the flavour of reproof, the flavour of consolation — were always ready with the man ; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. The flavour of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning; the flavour of rebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiastical dignity, bestowing a curt but not unamiable word of recognition here and there. Unkempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbles on t^ie flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of aw c, not unmingled with secret resentment ; women lounging on door-steps, holding babies on their hips stared in critical sullenness as he went by. " Theer's th' owd parson," commented one sharp-tongued matron. "Hoo's goin 1 to teach some one summat I warrant. What th' owd lad dunnot know is na worth knowin'. Ehl hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy, if tha dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'lt be gettin' r hidin'." Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' I homes were, Lowrie's cottage was a trifle less i inviting than the majority. It stood upon the roadside, an ugly little bare place, with a stubborn desolateness in its appearance, its only redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same cleanliness reigned ! inside, Barholm observed when he entered ; and yet on the whole there was a stamp upon it which made it a place scarcely to be approved of. Before the low . fi re sat a girl with a child on her knee, and this girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, and met him with a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale face. " Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan," she said, without waiting for him to speak. Both on em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here

but me," and he held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to have hidden it. Mr Barholm walked in serenely, sure that, he ought to be welcome, if he was not. "At 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 in irresolute wretchedness, as he seated himself. "I— l dunnot know nobody much now," she stammered. "I — I've been away fro" Riggan sin' afore yo' comn — if yore th' newparson," and then she coloured nervously andl 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 storry of distaste and. hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap ; her fingers were busy«plaiting up folds of the poor little gown. "I dunnot want to be talked to," she whimpered. " I dunnot know as talk can do folk as is in 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'm not religious, an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Mcthody nivvor 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'm sorry to hear it," with increased gravity of demeanour. " 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 towards the frail creature on her knee, "is a very terrible thing."' Liz burnt into pileoun sobs, crying like a hardly-t reated child. " I know it's hard enow," she cried ; " I canna get work neyther at th 1 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 ii were not for Joan, I might starve, and th' choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I—lI — I wur very fond o' him — I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond of me, an' he wur a gentleman too. He wur no labouring man, an' he wur kind to me, until he got tired. Them soart .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 in the pool ot 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 prosperoui 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 repertoire 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 exclamation " Joan ! " a young woman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her throat bare, her fustian jacket hanging over 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 Lix spoke querously. " It's th' parson, Joan," she said. "He comn to talk like th' rest on 'em, an' he makes 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 the choild betwixt yo'," she said, " if you've managed to do nowt else." " I felt it my duty, as the Rector of the parish," explained Barholm somewhat curtly, " I felt it my duty, as Rector of the parish, to endeavour to bring your friend to a proper sense of her position." Joan turned toward him. " Has tha done it ? " she asked. The Reverened Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying out. " I—lI — I " he stammered. Joan interrupted him. "Dost tha see as tha has done her any good ?" she demanded. " I dunnot mysen." " I have endeavoured, to the best of my ability, to improve her mental condition,' the minister replied. t "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 there is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunfton that could na ha' towd that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen there is na a parson betwixt here an' Lunnon as she could

o lia' towd that much to hersen. Howiwer. as tha has said thy say, happen it'll do yo' r this toime, an' yo' can let her be for * Mr Barholm was unusually silent during ainner that evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, «c it invariably did. »I am rather disturbed this evening, Auice," he said. „ . , Anice looked up questionably. " 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, and seems very stubborn. There is a positive touch of the vixen about her."

Chapter IV. Nib and his Master. Hr 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- '^ c rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls, who passed to and from their work 'at the mine, drew her to the window whenever they made their appearauce. She longed to know something definite of them— to get a little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and women, passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each other who she was. decided upon her relationship to the family. " Hoo's tli' owd parson's la">s," somebody s-aid. " Hoo's noan so bad-lookin' neyther, if hoo was na sich a bib o' a tiling." The people who had regarded Mr Barholm with a spice of disfavour still could not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternly women nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children stared after (heir usual fashion; but even the hardestnaturcd matron could find nothing more condemnatory to say than lt Hoo's noan Lancashire^ that's plain as tlv nose on a body's face ;" or, " Theer is na much on her, at ony rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly like Usp, wi'out much blood i' her." Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was nsod to being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have a great deal of hard, common discomfort and struggle acquire a tendency to depreciation almost as a, second nature. It is easier to bear one's own misfortunes than to hear the good fortune of hcitcr-uscd people. That is the insult added by Fate to injury. Kiggan was a crooked, rambling, crossgrained little place, and to a casual observer, unaccustomed to its inhabitants as a species, br no means prepossesing. From the one wide street, with its jumble of old, tumbledown shops, and glaring new ones, branched out narrow up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, where broad and bacon were ranged alongside of potatoes nnd flabby cabbages ; ornithological specimens made of pale sweet-cake, and adorned with startling black current eyes, rested unsteadily against the window-pane, a sore temptation to the juvenile populace. It was in one of these side streets that Anico met with her first adventure. Turning (lie corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a group of children, followed almost ira mediately by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice paused for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little crowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heart of it. The two boys who were the principal figures were righting frantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows with not unscientific fists. Now and then a lieice, red, boyish face was to be seen, and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercer and hot ter, while the dog — a oinall, shrewd, sharp-nosed terrier — barked at the combatants' heels, snapping at one paii, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the excitement. " Boys ! " cried Anice. " What's the matter ? '' "They're feigbten," remarked a philosophical young bystander, with placid, unabated interest, "an' Jud Bates '11 win." It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of interfering, and there was something ? o decided in the girlish voice addressing them that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, panting liea\ily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently resenting the unexpected intrusion. " What is it all about ? " demanded the ?iil " Tell me." The crowd gathered close around her to stare ; the terrier sat down breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One of the boys was his master, it plain at a glance, and, as a natural continence, he had felt it his duty to assist to tlu i full extent of his powers. The boy who v -a s his master — a sturdy, ragged ten-year-old—was the first to speak. " Why could na he let me abe then ? " lie asked irately. " I was na doin' owt t' him." "Yea tha was," retorted the opponent. " N"av, 1 was na." "Yea, ha was." "Well," said Anice, "what ?vas he dong 1 " " Aye," cried the first youngster, " tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th' first punse 1 " excitedly doubling his fist again. "I oidna." " T ay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib rti' thy clog, and hit him a q ide o' th' red, an' then' I punsed thee, an' I<jdo it aga'n fur " " Wait a minute," cried Anice, holding up „ I l ul , c y love(1 kind. " Who is Nib ? " "Xib's niy dog," surlily. "And them as punses him has gotten to punse me."' Amce bent down and patted the small »nimal. <( "He seems a very nice dog," she said. "What did you kick him for ? "' -^'ih's master was somewhat mollified. A VPrsnn who could appreciate the virtues of " l lw best tarrier i' Kiggan " could not be regarded wholly with contempt, or even indifference. ' ( "He kicked him fnr nowt," he answered. He's allus at uther him or rue. He bust my

kite an' he cribbed my marvelf , d'dn't he ? '' appealing to the bystanders. " Aje, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen'. He wur mad case Jud wur winnen, and then he kicked Nib." Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his manifold in» juries, and the readiness with which they were attested to. " Aye," he said, " an' I did na set on him at first neythur, I never set on him tilt he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite an' steal my marvels, an' {he may ea' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer ! " It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously in the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed ready — when once the tongues were loose — to say a word for Jud and " th 1 best tqrrier i' Riggan," For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make herself heard. " You are a good boy to take care of your dog," she said to Jud, " and though fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy" — gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy — " perhaps, if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. You are a coward," she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who slinked sulkily out of sight. " Owd Sammy Craddock," lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched Anice as ahe walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd chuckle. "Eh ! eh ! " he commented ; so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it ? Wall, hoo may be o' the same mate, but hoo is nae o' the same grain, I'll warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench." "Owd Samm}'s amused chuckles and exclamations of "Eh 1 hoo's a rare un— that hoo is— fur a wench," at last drew his wife's attention. The good woman pounced upon him sharply. " Tha'rt an owd yommer head," she snid. "What art tha ramblin' about now? Who is it as is siccan a rare un ?" Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands. " Why," said he, " I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'll gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now a' th' thick of a foight among th' lads ? I know thou'st nivver guess." "Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther," testily. " Why," slapping his knee, " th' owd parson's lass. A little wench not much higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skim milk, but stead}' and full o' pluck as an owd un." " Nay, now, tha dost na say so / What wor she doin', an' how did she come theer ? Tha mun ha' been drcamin' 1 "' " Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as 1 see thee, an' beard ivvery word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her ! Hoo mcd as if hood lived wi' lads aw her days. Jud Bates an 1 that young marplot o' Thorrno's wur f eight en about Nib— at it tooth an rl nail — an' th' lass sees 'em, an' marches inlo th' thick, an' sets 'em to roots. Yo' should ha' seen her ! An' huo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoo does na know but what hood a fowt herscn i' his place, an' hoo ca's Jack Thome a coward, au' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Jud to bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her." " Well," exclaimed Mrs^Craddock, "did yo' ivver hear th' loike ! " "I wish th' owd parson had seed her," chuckled her spouse irreverently. " That soart. is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd been king and council i 1 one, an' rated 'em fro' th' top round o' th' ladder. He canna get down fro' his perch. The owd lad'll stick theer till he gets a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an' aw' — but th' lass is a different mak'." It was in this manner that Miss Barholm introduced herself to the village of Riggan and her father's parishioners. Having attracted the attention of Sammy Craddock, she was now fairly before the public. Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new comers usually passed through his hands, and were condemned or approved by him. His pipe, and his criticisms upon society in general, provided him with occupation. Too old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be * ignored. Where he could not make himself felt, he would make himself heard. Accordingly, when he coni descended to inform a select and confidential audience that the "owd parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she was," — (the masculine opinion of Riggan on the subject of tbe weaker sex was a rather disparaging one) — the chances of the Rector's daughter began, so to speak, to " look up." If Sammy Craddock found virtue in the new comer, it was possible that such virtue might exist, at least in a negative form— and open enmity was rendered unneccessary, and even impolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened. When Anice passed through the streets, the slatternly, baby-laden women looked at her curiously, and in a manner not absolutely unfriendly. She might not be so bad after all, if she did have " Lunnon ways," and was smiled upon by Fortune. At any rate, she differed from the parson himself, which was in her favour. (To be continued.)