“Ay,” said the mother, regarding them with rather resentful curiosity, “she wur here this mornin'—Liz wur. She wur in a bad way enow—said she'd been out on th' tramp fur nigh a week—seemit a bit out o' her head. Th' mon had left her again, as she mowt ha' knowed he would. Ay, lasses is foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, bad o' th' fever. I towd her she'd better ha' stayed theer. She wanted to know wheer Joan Lowrie wur, an' kept axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and towd her so.”
“Did she ask about her little child?” said Anice.
“Ay, I think she did, if I remember reet. She said summat about wantin' to know wheer we'd put it, an' if Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seem to be th' choild she cared about so much as Joan Lowrie.”
“Did you tell her where we buried it?” Grace asked.
“Ay.”
“Thank you. I will go to the church-yard,” he said to Anice. “I may find her there.”
“Will you let me go too?” Anice asked.
He paused a moment
“I am afraid that it would be best that I should go alone.”
“Let me go,” she pleaded. “Don't be afraid for me. I could not stay away. Let me go—for Joan's sake.”