“Joan! my poor Joan!” she said.
Joan's head sank down upon her hands.
“I mun go away fro' Riggan,” she whispered. “I mun go away afore he knows. Theer's no help fur me.”
“No help?” repeated Anice after her.
She did not understand.
“Theer's none,” said Joan. “Dunnot yo' see as ony place wheer he is con be no place fur me? I thowt—I thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, but it is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong?”
Anice wrung her hands together.
“A wrong?” she cried. “Not a wrong, Joan—I cannot let you call it that.”
“It would na be nowt else. Am I fit wife fur a gentlemon? Nay, my work's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' day to-morrow morning, it's done then.”
“You do not mean,” said Anice, “that you will leave us?”