There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she began to explain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancying that she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence she reluctantly submitted to. She had come to speak about the night school.
“Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to,” she said; “I larnt to reed theer an' write a bit, but—but theer's other things I'd loike to know. Tha canst understand,” she added a little abruptly, “I need na tell yo'. Little Jud Bates said as yo' had a class o' yore own, an' it come into my moind as I would ax yo' about it. If I go to th' skoo I—I'd loike to be wi' ye.”
“You can come to me,” said Anice. “And do you know, I think you can help me.” This thought had occurred to her suddenly. “I am sure you can help me,” she repeated.
When Joan at last started to go away, she paused before the picture, hesitating for a moment, and then she turned to Anice again.
“Yo' say as th' book maks it seem real as th' pictur,” she said.
“It seems so to me,” Anice answered.
“Will yof lend me th' book?” she asked abruptly.
Anice's own Bible lay upon a side-table. She took it up and handed it to the girl, saying simply, “I will give you this one if you will take it. It was mine.”
And Joan carried the book away with her.