’You’re right there, maister!’ answered Daniel. ’There’s not a sparrer falls, nor an oss breaks his knees, nor gets spavined, but what it be good for them as is vetinaries, or has osses to sell. And it be the same wi’ ’uman beings; them goes scatt at times, and it be for the good o’ the doctors. So the Lord sends to every man his meat.’ ’But how did it come about?’ This was a question asked of Joyce repeatedly. But Joyce was uncommunicative. She kept her eyes fixed on the face of the injured man, and only now and then turned them with a sharp, defiant glance at any one who approached too near. The hostess kindly brought her a hunch of bread. She tore and ate it much as an animal devours its food. She returned no thanks for it. She could think of nothing but him whom she held to her bosom, watching every change in his face, or fearing lest he should die in her arms. The journey was long, but Joyce did not relax her hold nor relinquish her place for one moment. ’Won’t’y get down and hev a drop o’ cyder?’ asked the driver, at every public house they passed. ’It be a faint day for the horses, and they need refreshing.’ Joyce shook her head in reply. But if Joyce would not assist in cooling the horses by drinking herself, the driver was more considerate. Between each of these refreshment stations, the man endeavoured to open conversation with her. He was a young fellow, fresh in colour, and not bad looking. He had a sufficiently observant eye to see that Joyce was a fine girl, though a very rough one. But she would not answer him; she did not even look at him, unless he ventured too near her charge. She was patient at the stoppages, which were many. They rested Herring. She saw in his face that he suffered with the motion and was easy when the motion ceased. That sufficed her. In the midst of Sourton Down stands a very humble tavern, backed by a few stunted trees, twisted and turning from the west; and by the roadside is to be seen a tall granite cross, once a burial monument of a British chief, and bearing an inscription that was cut into and rendered illegible in medieval times, when the upright stone was converted into a wayside cross. As the waggon halted before this little tavern, Joyce saw Herring’s eyes open. He raised his arms and waved them in an unmeaning manner; then, looking intently upwards, as though he saw something far above him in the depths of the blue sky, he drew a deep sigh and murmured ’Mirelle!’ Then his eyes closed again, and his hands dropped. ’Right, right, maister!’ said Joyce; ’it be the Whiteface you want and would seek. But why do’y look up there? Her be on earth, not in heaven. I be a nursing of’y, none for Joyce, nor for Miss Cicely, but for her you cries after and looks for up above.’