sk himself what he
should say to the collier young woman, and her unhappy charge. Orthodox
phrases with various distinct flavors--the flavor of encouragement, the
flavor of reproof, the flavor of consolation,--were always ready with
the man; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. The
flavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning; the flavor of
rebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiastical
dignity, bestowing a curt, but not unamiable word of recognition here
and there. Unkempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbles
on the flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of awe, not
un-mingled with secret resentment; women lounging on door-steps, holding
babies on their hips, stared in critical sullenness as he went by.

"Theer's th' owd parson," commented one sharp-tongued matron. "Hoo's
goin' to teach some one summat, I warrant What th' owd lad dunnot know
is na worth knowin'. Eh! hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy,
if tha dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'lt be gettin' a hidin'."

Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' homes were, Lowrie's cottage
was a trifle less inviting than the majority. It stood upon the
roadside, an ugly little bare place, with a look of stubborn desolation,
its only redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same
cleanliness reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered; and yet on
the whole there was a stamp upon it which made it a place scarcely to
be approved of. Before the low fire sat a girl with a child on her knee,
and this girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, and
met him with a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale face.

"Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan," she said, without waiting for
him to speak. "Both on 'em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here but me,"
and she held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to have
hidden it.

Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to be welcome, if he
were not.

"At the pit, are they?" he answered. "Dear me! I might have remembered
that they would be at this time. Well, well; I will take a seat, my
girl, and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister at
the church--Mr. Barholm?"

Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe-begone, stood up
before him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself.

"I--I dunnot know nobody much now," she stammered. "I--I've been away
fro' Riggan