’Her wants you to do it. You mun lift the hearthstone and say glory rallaluley, and Our Vaither—kinkum kum over her. Her told me so herself. I cannot do it. I don’t know the words. I’ve just picked up a word here and there when the Methodies ha’ been out on the down, singing and preaching, and hugging and praying. You can say kinkum kum over mother and make her lie quiet and sleep.’ Poor dark soul! Joyce had no knowledge of God, and very dim, perverted conceptions of right and wrong. Her only faith was in troubled spirits, and that was no faith, but a confusion of mind between death and life, and dreaming visions and sight when waking. Her sole idea of prayer was a spell to lay the restless dead. Herring’s heart was softened by compassion for the girl. She watched the expression of his face very intently, somewhat mistrustfully, fearful of a refusal, and, worse than all, of ridicule. But though Herring did meditate refusal, no thought of the ludicrous in her request stirred a muscle of his mouth. He was grieved for her, and he was touched by her ignorant simplicity. ’Poor Joyce!’ he said, and knelt down by her again. ’Poor Joyce!’ Then he tried to soothe her and turn her thoughts into another channel. She, however, persisted in forcing the task on him of saying sacred words over a dead and buried woman. When Joyce had made up her mind to anything she was inflexible. Herring was being forced into one position, then into another, for which he was unsuited. Joyce had made him her doctor, her nurse, her guardian, and now she made him her priest. He was good-natured, and good nature is weakness. After holding back he at length, out of pity, and to humour the headstrong girl, did as she required. She made him raise the hearthstone, and trig it up with a piece of granite. He could not lift the stone out of its place, though Old Grizzly had been able-armed enough to do this unaided. Then Herring knelt and gravely said a prayer—the prayer. Joyce was satisfied. ’That be right,’ she said. ’Now mother don’t want her toys no more. There be a stick wi’ a crook to the end i’ thicky corner.’ ’I see there is.’ ’Fetch ’n, and scrabble with ’n under the hearthstone.’ ’What for?’ ’Do as I tell’y. You’ll see what for fast enough. Hav’y got the stick? Now thrust it well in, and poke about till you comes to some’ut hard. Herring groped as bidden, rather uneasy in his mind at what he was doing, lest he should rake out the bones of the dead woman. ’Do’y feel nort?’ ’Yes; there is something there hard and heavy.’ ’Vang ’n in to’y.’ Herring obeyed. There certainly was something there. As the crook struck it, it sounded like a metal box. After some working with the stick he managed to get it out. It was a small box of japanned iron, which had been locked, but had been battered till the lock had given way. The lid accordingly was loose.