The old tone, half caressing, half reproachful, was harder for the girl to withstand than a stronger will could comprehend. It brought back so much to her,—those first bright days, her poor, brief little reign, her childish pleasures, his professed love for her, all her lost delight. If she had been deliberately bad, she would have given way that instant, knowing that she was trifling on the brink of sin once more. But she was not bad, only emotional, weak and wavering. The tone held her one moment and then she burst into fresh tears.
“I wunnot listen to yo',” she cried. “I wunnot listen to yo'. I wunnot—I wunnot,” and before he had time to utter another word, she had turned and fled down the lane back toward Joan's cottage, like some hunted creature fleeing for life.
Joan, sitting alone, rose in alarm, when she burst open the door and rushed in. She was quivering from head to foot, panting for breath, and the tears were wet upon her cheeks.
“What is it?” cried Joan. “Lizzie, my lass, what ails yo'?”
She threw herself down upon the floor and hid her face in the folds of Joan's dress.
“I—ha'—I ha' seed a ghost, or—summat,” she panted and whimpered. “I—I met summat as feart me.”
“Let me go and look what it wur,” said Joan. “Was it i' th' lane? Tha art tremblin' aw o'er, Lizzie.”
But Liz only clung to her more closely.
“Nay—nay,” she protested. “Tha shall na go. I'm feart to be left—an'—an' I dunnot want yo' to go. Dunnot go, Joan, dunnot.”
And Joan was fain to remain.