“Has tha done it?” she asked.
The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying out.
“I—I—” he stammered.
Joan interrupted him.
“Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?” she demanded. “I dunnot mysen.”
“I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve her mental condition,” the minister replied.
“I thowt as much,” said Joan; “I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but if yo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it 'll do yo' fur this toime, an' yo' can let her be for a while.”
Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as it invariably did.
“I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice,” he said.
Anice looked up questioningly.