'There be Miss Cicely Battishill,' said Joyce. 'Sure her will take my place once for all.'
'Another step more, girl,' said the young man to Joyce, 'and our burden is in a chair.'
'Why do'y call me a gurl?' asked Joyce. 'I bain't a gurl, I be a maiden. There be maidens in these parts and no gurls. I dunnow, but the leddy I been a helping may be a girl; hers different from I, I be a maiden.'
'Never mind distinctions,' said the young man, impatiently. 'Go on another step.'
'No, I'll put my head under no hellens. I be a savage,' said Joyce, obstinately. 'You go on yourself, and get Miss Cicely to help.'
'I will take your place, Joyce,' said the young lady at the door; and she assisted the strange pale girl to come in.
The young man looked back over his shoulder, and said, 'Thanks for your help as far as it went, maiden.'
Joyce stood without, the red light on her, with the dark garden, the moor, and the night sky behind, her strange face appearing even handsome in the glow, and the flicker reflected in her dull eyes.
The figure struck the young man with an evanescent sense of pity. She seemed an outcast—desolate, friendless.
Then the door closed, and the light was cut off. But Joyce did not leave. She stood in the porch with her arms folded looking over the black garden wall at the wild, blacker moor beyond, over which the wind was soughing. She was lost in a day-dream unintelligible to herself.