Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her. “No,” said Joan, holding her back; “do not kiss me, but remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can.” Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing bewildered upon the road. “I have done it now,” thought Joan to herself “for good or evil I have done it, though I don’t quite know what made me speak like that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake, I’d have acted very differently. I’ve been a wicked girl, and it’s coming home to me. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it seems I may ruin him, and that I’ll never do; I’d rather make away with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent must suffer with the guilty, that’s the truth of it, as I suffer to-day because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it is hard—very hard—to have to go away and give him up to her; to have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know that if it wasn’t for my being nobody’s child, and not fit to marry an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune, and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I were dead, I do—I do!” Then the poor girl began to sob as she walked, and, thus sobbing and furtively wiping away the tears that would run from her eyes, she crept back to the inn in the twilight, thoroughly weary and broken in spirit. When Emma reached Monk’s Lodge she found her father leaning over the front gate, as though he were waiting for her. “Where have you been, love?” he said, in that tone of tenderness which he always adopted when speaking to his daughter. “I thought that I saw you on the road with somebody, and began to wonder why you were so late.” “I have been walking with Joan Haste,” she answered absently. “Why have you been walking with her?” he asked, in a quick and suspicious voice. “She is very well in her way, but not altogether the person for you to make a companion of.” “I don’t know about that, father. I should say that she was quite my equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better educated.” “Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not become too intimate with her.” “There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from Bradmouth.” “Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else did she tell you?”