“Sure he's Mester Landsell's son? Aye, to be 'sure it's him. My mester towd me hissen.”
This was Liz's trouble, then.
At noon Joan went home full of self-reproach because sometimes her patience had failed her. Liz looked up with traces of tears in her eyes, when Joan came in. Joan did not hesitate. She only thought of giving her comfort. She went and sat down in a chair near by—she drew the curly head down upon her lap, and laid her hand on it caressingly.
“Lizzie, lass,” she said; “yo' need na ha' been afeard to tell me.”
There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then stillness.
“I heard about it to-day,” Joan went on, “an' I did na wonder as yo' wur full o' trouble. It brings it back, Liz, I dare say.”
The pant became a sob—the sob broke into a low cry.
“Oh, Joan! Joan! dunnot blame me—dunnot. It wur na my fault as he coom, an'—an' I canna bear it.”
Even then Joan had no suspicion. To her mind it was quite natural that such a cry of pain should be wrung from the weak heart. Her hand lost its steadiness as she touched the soft, tangled hair more tenderly than before.
“He wur th' ghost as yo' seed i' th' lane,” she said. “Wur na he?”