She stopped him.
“Tha did me a good turn,” she said. And then her voice changed. “Dan Lowrie's my feyther, an' I've stuck to him, I dunnot know why—happen cause I never had nowt else to hold to and do for; but feyther or no feyther I know he's a bad un when th' fit's on an' he has a spite agen a mon. So tak' care, I tell thee agen. Theer now, I've done. Will tha walk on first an' let me follow thee?”
Something in her mode of making this suggestion impressed him singularly.
“I do not quite understand—” he said.
She turned and looked at him, her face white and resolute.
“I dunnot want harm done,” she answered. “I will na ha' harm done if I con help it, an' if I mun speak th' truth I know theer's harm afoot toneet. If I'm behind thee, theer is na a mon i' Riggan as dare lay hond on thee to my face, if I am nowt but a lass. That's why I ax thee to let me keep i' soight.”
“You are a brave woman,” he said, “and I will do as you tell me, but I feel like a coward.”
“Theer is no need as you should,” she answered in a softened voice, “Yo' dunnot seem loike one to me.”
Derrick bent suddenly, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. At this involuntary act of homage—for it was nothing less—Joan Lowrie looked up at him with startled eyes.
“I am na a lady,” she said, and drew her hand away.