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“It shall be as you wish, whether you tell me the story or not,” said Langley. “We will keep it as sacred as you have done.”

She hesitated a moment, seemingly pondering with herself before she answered him. “Ay,” she said, “but I ha’ another reason behind. I want summat fro’ yo’: I want yo’re pity. Happen it moight do her good even now.” She did not look at him as she proceeded, but stood with her face a little turned away and her eyes resting upon the shadow on the mountain. “Theer wur a lass as worked at th’ Deepton mines,” she said–“a lass as had a weakly brother as worked an’ lodged wi’ her. Her name wur Jinny, an’ she wur quiet and plain-favored. Theer wur other wenches as wur well-lookin’, but she wasna; theer wur others as had homes, and she hadna one; theer wur plenty as had wit an’ sharpness, but she hadna them neyther. She wur nowt but a desolate, homely lass, as seemt to ha’ no place i’ th’ world, an’ yet wur tender and weak-hearted to th’ core. She wur allus longin’ fur summat as she wur na loike to get; an’ she nivver did get it, fur her brother wasna one as cared fur owt but his own doin’s. But theer were one among aw th’ rest as nivver passed her by, an’ he wur th’ mester’s son. He wur a bright, handsome chap, as won his way ivverywheer, an’ had a koind word or a laugh fur aw. So he gave th’ lass a smile, an’ did her a favor now and then–loike as not without givin’ it more than a thowt–until she learned to live on th’ hope o’ seein’ him. An’, bein’ weak an’ tender, it grew on her fro’ day to day, until it seemt to give th’ strength to her an’ tak’ it both i’ one.”

She stopped and looked at Langley here. “Does tha’ see owt now, as I’m getten this fur?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, his agitation almost master ing him. “And now I have found the lost face that haunted me so.”

“Ay,” said Bess, “it was hers;” and she hurried on huskily: “When you went away she couldna abide th’ lonesomeness, an’ so one day she said to her brother, ‘Dave, let us go to th’ new mine wheer Mester Ed’ard is;’ an’ him bein’ allus ready fur a move, they started out together. But on th’ way th’ lad took sick and died sudden, an’ Jinny wur left to hersen’. An’ then she seed new trouble. She wur beset wi’ danger as she’d niwer thowt on, an’ before long she foun’ out as women didna work o’ this side o’ the sea as they did o’ ours. So at last she wur driv’ upon a strange-loike plan. It sounds wild, happen, but it wasna so wild after aw. Her bits of clothes giv’ out an’ she had no money; an’ theer wur Dave’s things. She’d wore th’ loike at her work i’ Deepton, an’ she made up her moind to wear ’em agen. Yo’ didna know her when she coom here, an’ no one else guessed at th’ truth. She didna expect nowt, yo’ see; she on’y wanted th’ comfort o’ hearin’ th’ voice she’d longed an’ hungered fur; an’ here wur wheer she could hear it. When I fun’ her out by accident, she towd me, an’ sin’ then we ‘ve kept th’ secret together. Do yo’ guess what else theer’s been betwixt us, mester?”

“I think I do,” he answered. “God forgive me for my share in her pain!”

“Nay,” she returned, “it was no fault o’ thine. She niwer had a thowt o’ that. She had a patient way wi’ her, had Jinny, an’ she bore her trouble better than them as hopes. She didna ax nor hope neyther; an’ when theer coom fresh hurt to her she wur ready an’ waiting knowin’ as it moight comn ony day. Happen th’ Lord knows what life wur give her fur–I dunnot, but it’s ower now–an’ happen she knows hersen’. I hurried here to-neet,” she added, battling with a sob, “as soon as I heerd as she was missin’, th’ truth struck to my heart, an’ I thowt as I should be here first, but I wasna I ha’ not gotten no more to say.”

They went back to the shanty, and with her own hands she did for the poor clay the last service it would need, Langley and his companion waiting the while outside. When her task was at an end she came to them, and this time it was Langley who addressed himself to her. “May I go in?” he asked.

She bent her head in assent, and without speaking he left them and entered the shanty alone. The moonlight, streaming in as before, fell upon the closed eyes, and hands folded in the old, old fashion upon the fustian jacket: the low whisper of the pines crept downward like a sigh. Kneeling beside the pallet, the young man bent his head and touched the pale forehead with reverent lips. “God bless you for your love and faith,” he said, “and give you rest!”

And when he rose a few minutes later, and saw that the little dead flower he had worn had dropped from its place and lay upon the pulseless breast, he did not move it, but turned away and left it resting; there.