“Joan,” she said, “are you ill?”
Joan stirred a little uneasily, but did not look at her as she answered:
“Nay, I am na ill; I nivver wur ill i' my loife.”
“Then,” said Anice, “what—what is it that I see in your face?”
There was a momentary tremor of the finely moulded, obstinate chin.
“I'm tired out,” Joan answered. “That's all,” and her hand fell upon her lap.
Anice turned to the fire.
“What is it?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
Joan looked up at her,—not defiant, not bitter, not dogged,—simply in appeal against her own despair.
“Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world? Is it allus to be this way wi' me? Con I nivver reach no higher, strive as I will, pray as I will,—fur I have prayed? Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world?”