"You can have no such claim on any one as on the woman who nourished you as a baby. I would give my life for you, and what are a few pounds compared to that?"
"I need no money, Sarah, or I would owe the help to you sooner than to any one in the world. I have plenty of clothes, neat and simple, and such as I wore at Welton. They will last for a couple of years."
"They are not black, dearie."
"No matter. The one mourning suit will do for Sundays, and light printed gowns will befit a nurse-girl. I have turned one white muslin into aprons, which will do beautifully over my two plain cashmere frocks. As to the outside mourning, what does it mean in many cases? My aunt and cousins are wearing what they call mourning for my father, gowns of costly material laden with crape and jet. Did they put it on because they cared for my father? No, Sarah; and they long to throw it off as soon as they think society would see them do it without remark. One day, when my aunt was specially kind, she said: 'These gowns will come in for you, Joyce, when my girls are done with them.' I should not have minded wearing them, if only my aunt had offered them in real kindliness. But my mourning is no matter of outside show. Why should I care about externals? My Father in heaven knows."
"But stay a while at Fernsclough, darling; Mrs. Caruth was always fond of you."
"Always most kind. But I cannot go there, of all places in the world."
These last words were uttered with an emphasis which Sarah could not help noticing. She looked up from her ironing with an inquiring expression, but Joyce had turned away her head. She noted, however, that a crimson flush had spread even over the fair neck of her nursling, and she wondered, but said nothing. Joyce, too, remained silently gazing out of the window; but when she at length turned, Sarah noted traces of tears on her cheeks, though she began to speak cheerfully enough and to unfold her plans more fully.
"I have settled about clothes. I have enough money for my journey, and a little to spare. On the strength of Mrs. Caruth's recommendation, Mrs. Ross, of Springfield Park, is willing to engage me as the personal attendant of her two little girls, aged four and six years. I shall have no menial work, and the mother regards her children's nurse as of a rank above her kitchen-maid, and does not insist on caps."
"Oh, Miss Joyce. That I should live to hear you speak like that!" said Sarah, in a tone of deep distress.
"Be comforted, dear old nurse and kindest of friends. Honest labour has with it far more of dignity than dependence with idleness. Earned bread will taste sweet. The dainties here are always bitter, no matter how delicately flavoured. And now I shall tell you no more, and when the time comes for questioning, you can answer truly that you do not know where I am. This much you shall know. Mrs. Caruth's own maid, whom you have seen many a time, will meet me when I leave this house, and accompany me to the station nearest to my place of service. I will not tell you the name of it, or of the town next to Springfield Park, but it will comfort you to feel that the old friend of my parents insists on sending this good woman to travel with me. When I am at my journey's end, she will return. Now you know all that I can tell you, and you may trust me that my uncle shall not be long kept in suspense as to my safety and whereabouts; Mrs. Caruth has undertaken to enlighten him. She does blame me for my pride in refusing to go to her, not for finding dependence unbearable, or for wishing to earn my own bread. But she cares for me because I am my father's daughter, and is resolved to shield me from the possibility of harsh judgments, by providing me with a temporary attendant."