med involuntarily, as the huge
form lay motionless; the girl leaning over him.

"He is not hurt," Gilbert said, "any more than he has hurt me; it was in
self-defence," he added.

"Father, father!" moaned the girl. "Oh, sir! oh, miss! I don't know what
to do!"

"Hold your tongue, and let me get up and at him again," growled the man,
struggling to sit upright.

But his daughter had the advantage, and seated herself on her father's
chest, saying to Gilbert, "I'll keep him quiet till you are out of
sight, sir; I will indeed. I know you were driven to do it," she said.
"Father is always fighting; but, oh! sir, we have a hard time of it.
There is no work for the men and boys, and if it were not for the good
lady's schools, and the help she gives, I don't know what would become
of us. Many were starving last winter, and of course it is kind of hard,
to know rich folks have plenty and we are starving. Mother died last
fall; and though Mrs. More sent her physic, and the schoolmistress
broth, she could not stand up against the fever, and trouble about poor
father and Jim, and Dick, and the baby."

Joyce's eyes filled with tears. "What is to be done?" she said,
helplessly; "what can be done?"

"I don't know, miss; I don't know. There's plenty of the ore left, but
it is no use working it, there's no market for it. Mrs. More teaches us
to pray to God and try to trust Him, but He does not seem to hear or
help. I have been in service, and could get a place again at a Farm at
Publow, through Mrs. More, but since mother is gone, there is none to
look after baby. I do love the baby!"

"How long are you going to jaw like this, Sue? Let me get up and settle
the question; if not now, I _will_ settle it at last."

"Come away," Gilbert said, putting his hand on Joyce's arm; "we can do
no good. It is getting so dark. Do come!" He put his hand to his head,
for he still felt dazed and giddy with his fall.

"Tell me your name," Joyce said, "and where I should find you."

"Susan Priday, Mendip Mines, that's my name, miss."

"I am going to see Mrs. More soon, and I will tell her about you," Joyce
said, in a low tone; "and do believe I am sorry for you. How old are
you?"

"Eighteen come Christmas," the girl said, looking up into Joyce's
beautiful face with undisguised admiration.

"Just my age," Joyce said. "Oh, I should like to make you happy! How old
is the baby?"

"Born when mother died--just nine months old; he is so pretty, he