"Thank you," she said; "I knew you would not be cruel to my little children. Will you all remember that I ask you to be peaceable, and to pray to God to help you and give you bread for your children. He is a kind and loving Father; don't forget that."
As Joyce stood before that seething crowd of strange, wan faces, for many of them bore too plainly the marks of fasting and hunger, the baby in her arms raised a pitiful cry, and she pressed it closer and soothed it, while the baby lifted its little hand and stroked its mother's face.
"Aye, she is of the right sort," they cried; "she is a mother who loves her child. She ain't too grand to cosset her babby. Let her go on!"
The post-boy cracked his whip, and the carriage was just starting, when Joyce suddenly turned ashen white, and sinking back in the carriage, the baby would have fallen had not Piers caught it by its cloak.
"What is it?—what is it, Joyce, my dear?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "You put too much strain on yourself; you are feeling the effects. Joyce!"
But Joyce did not speak. Her mother opened the basket, and taking out a bottle, held it to Joyce's lips.
"Take some wine; do try to sip it, Joyce."
But Joyce sat up and put it from her. "No, thank you, dear mother. I was faint, rather faint. Perhaps it was too much for me speaking to that angry crowd. Oh!" and she put her hand to her eyes, "their faces, their dreadful faces! I am better now."
And, with wonderful self-restraint, Joyce did not tell her mother or Piers that, amidst that throng of ragged, wild people, she had seen the face of the man whom she believed had caused her father's death.
Falcon's voice from the "dickey" was now heard. "Here's father! here's father!"