Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding them awkwardly, but with tenderness.
“Oh, thank yo',” she said. “It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em away.”
“It's a pleasure to me,” said Anice, picking out a delicate pink hyacinth. “Here's a hyacinth.” Then as Joan took it their eyes met. “Are you Joan Lowrie?” asked the girl.
Joan lifted her head.
“Aye,” she answered, “I'm Joan Lowrie.”
“Ah,” said Anice, “then I am very glad.”
They stood on the same level from that moment. Something as indescribable as all else in her manner, had done for Anice just what she had simply and seriously desired to do. Proud and stubborn as her nature was, Joan was subdued. The girl's air and speech were like her song. She stood inside the hedge still, in her white dress, among the flowers, looking just as much as if she had been born there as ever, but some fine part of her had crossed the boundary.
“Ah! then I am glad of that,” she said.
“Yo' are very good to say as much,” she answered, “but I dunnot know as I quite understand—”
Anice drew a little nearer.