rd him.

"There be men here as I would scarce ha' believed could ha' had much
agen him. I see one mon here as has a wife as lay nigh death a month or
so ago, an' it were the Parson as went to see her day after day, an'
tuk her help and comfort. Theer's another mon here as had a little un
to dee, an' when it deed, it wur th' Parson as knelt by its bed an' held
its hond an' talkt to it when it were feart. Theer's other men here as
had help fro' him as they did na know of, an' it wur help from a mon as
wur na far fro' a-bein' as poor an' hard worked i' his way as they are
i' theirs. Happen th' mon I speak on dunnot know much about th' sick
wife, an' deein choild, an' what wur done for 'em, an' if they dunnot,
it's th' Parson's fault."

"Why!" broke in "Owd Sammy." "Blame me, if tha art na turned Methody!
Blame me," in amazement, "if tha art na!"

"Nay," her face softening; "it is na Methody so much. Happen I'm turnin'
woman, fur I conna abide to see a hurt gi'en to them as has na earned
it. That wur why I spoke. I ha' towd yo' th' truth o' th' little chap
yo' jeered at an' throw'd his words back to."

Thus it became among her companions a commonly accepted belief that Joan
Lowrie had turned "Methody." They could find no other solution to her
championship of the Parson.

"Is it true as tha's j'ined th' Methodys?" Thwaite's wife asked Joan,
somewhat nervously.

She had learned to be fond of the girl, and did not like the idea of
believing in her defection.

"No," she answered, "it is na."

The woman heaved a sigh of relief.

"I thowt it wur na," she said. "I towd th' Maxys as I did na believe
it when they browt th' tale to me. They're powerful fond o' talebearing
that Maxy lot."

Joan stopped in her play with the child.

"They dunnot understand," she said, "that's aw. I ha' learned to think
different, an' believe i' things as I did na use to believe in. Happen
that's what they mean by talkin' o' th' Methodys."

People learned no more of the matter than this. They felt that in some
way Joan had separated herself from their ranks, but they found it
troublesome to work their way to any more definite conclusion.

"Hast heard about that lass o' Lowrie's?" they said to one another;
"hoo's takken a new turn sin' Lowrie deed; hoo allus wur a queer-loike,
high-handed wench."

After Lowrie's death, Anice Barholm and Joan were oftener together than
ever. What had at first been friendship had gradually become affection