ANICE went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told, she went to see Joan more than to visit Joan's protégée though her interest extended from the one to the other. But she did not see Joan, she only heard of her. Liz met her visitor without any manifestations of enthusiasm. She was grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat before she had been in the house ten minutes. Liz found, first, that she was not one of the enemy, and did not come to read a homily to her concerning her sins and transgressions; having her mind set at ease thus far, she found time to be interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her prettiness of toilet, a certain delicate grace of presence, were all virtues in Liz's eyes. She was so fond of pretty things herself, she had been wont to feel such pleasure and pride in her own beauty, that such outward charms were the strongest of charms to her. She forgot to be abashed and miserable, when, after talking a few minutes, Anice came to her and bent over the child as it lay on her knee. She even had the courage to regard the material of her dress with some degree of interest.
“Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon,” she ventured, wistfully touching the pretty silk with her finger. “Theer's noan sich i' Riggan.”
“Yes,” answered Anice, letting the baby's hand cling to her fingers. “I bought it in London.”
Liz touched it again, and this time the wistfulness in her touch crept up to her eyes, mingled with a little fretfulness.
“Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon,” she said. “It's the grandest place i' th' world. I dunnot wonder as th' queen lives theer. I wur happy aw th' toime I wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life. I—I canna hardly bear to think on it—it gi'es me such a wearyin' an' long-in'; I wish I could go back, I do”—ending with a sob.
“Don't think about it any more than you can help,” said Anice gently. “It is very hard I know; don't cry, Liz.”
“I canna help it,” sobbed Liz; “an' I can no more help thinkin' on it, than th' choild theer can help thinkin' on its milk. I'm hungerin' aw th' toime—an' I dunnot care to live; I wakken up i' th' noight hungerin' an' cryin' fur—fur what I ha' not got, an' nivver shall ha' agen.”
The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The sight of the silk dress had brought back to her mind her lost bit of paradise as nothing else would have done—her own small store of finery, the gayety and novelty of London sounds and sights.
Anice knelt down upon the flagged floor, still holding the child's hand.
“Don't cry,” she said again. “Look at the baby, Liz. It is a pretty baby. Perhaps if it lives, it may be a comfort to you some day.”