'Whose name?'
'Her wi' the white face.'
'What—Mirelle!' The name dropped involuntarily from his lips.
'You may take your hand away,' she said, 'I know what I wanted to know.'
'What did you want to know, Joyce?—the name?'
'Ah! I wanted to know more nor that; and I've a learned all in a minute.' She paused, still intently watching him. Presently she asked, 'Where did you take her to? Where do you live? Did'y take her to your own home?'
'No, Joyce, of course I did not.'
'Why of course? You likes her more than any other.'
'I—I—Joyce! are you daft?'
'I bain't daft,' answered the girl. 'What I've a found out I know. My elbow told me the truth. When you had your hand on my arm one day I said to'y something about Miss Cicely, and your hand were quiet as if I spoke about a tatie to one wi' a full belly. But when I axed about the Whiteface—I cannot mind her name—then you gave a start, and your hand shocked. We'm friends, you and I, and you won't hide nothing from me. Where be Whiteface to now?'