But one evening, when Bram, as his custom was, waylaid her as she came from the farm, as soon as she was out of sight of the window, Joan looked at him with eyes full of alarm. “Eh, but she’s found me aht, Mr. Elshaw, an’ she’s led me a pretty dance for what you’ve done, Ah can tell ye.” “Why, what’s that, Joan?” “That there money! She guessed, bless ye! who ’twas as gave it to me. ‘Joan,’ says she, ‘if ye take money from him again, if it’s to keep us from starving, Ah’ll go and throw mysen down t’ pit shaft oop top o’ t’ hill!’ And she means it, she do! Ah doan’t like t’ looks of her. What between her father and t’other one--” and Joan jerked her head in the direction of the works down in the town--“she’s losing her wits too, Mr Elshaw, that’s what she’s doing!” Bram was silent for some minutes. “Well, it can’t go on like this,” said he at last. “The creditors will get too clamorous to be put off. If I could see Mr. Biron I should advise him to----” But Joan cut him short with an emphatic gesture. “Doan’t you try it on, Mr. Elshaw!” cried she earnestly. “Doan’t you try to get at Mr. Biron. That’s joost what he wants, to get hold of you. Time after time he says to Miss Claire, ‘If Ah could see young Elshaw,’ says he, ‘Ah could settle summat.’ But she won’t have it. It’s t’ one thing she won’t let him have his way abaht. ‘If he cooms in t’ house,’ says she, ‘Ah’ll go aht o’ ’t.’ So now you know how she feels, Mr. Elshaw, and bless her poor little heart, Ah like her t’ better for ’t!” Bram did not say what he felt about it. He listened to all she had to say, and then with a husky “Good-night, Joan,” he left her and went home. He too liked the spirit Claire showed in avoiding him, in refusing help from the one friend whose hand was always held out to her. But, on the other hand, the impossibility of doing her any good, of even seeing her to exchange the warm handclasp of an old friend, gnawed at his heart, and made him sore and sick. A dozen times he found himself starting for the farm with the intention of forcing himself upon her, of insisting on being seen by her, so that he might offer the help, the comfort, with which heart and hand were overflowing. But each time he remembered that, brave as he felt before seeing her, in her presence he would be constrained and helpless, easily repelled by the coldness which she knew how to assume, by the look of suffering, only too genuine, he could see in her drawn face. And so the days grew into weeks, until one day, not long before Christmas, he was crossing from one room to another down at the works with a sheaf of letters in his hand, when he came face to face with Christian. Bram stopped, almost fell back; but he did not utter a word. Christian, who was looking pale and very delicate, held out his hand with a smile. “Well, Bram, glad or sorry to see me back again?” “Glad, very glad indeed, Mr. Christian,” said Bram.