’Joyce!’ said Herring, ’I do not understand. What is the meaning of this? How came I here?’ ’Sure, my maister, it were I as brought you here. The young Cap’n Sampson Tramplara would ha’ killed’y, but I fought ’n for’y, and I were too much for ’n. You mended my arms and made them strong, and they were strong enough to keep ’n off from killing of you. He’d ha’ done it. He had that in his hand would ha’ scatted your head all to smash, and he were about to do it, but I were too strong for he, thanks be to you for mending of me up. Glory rallaluley!’ ’But how came I here, Joyce?’ ’Sure enough, because I brought’y in a waggon as grand as a king. Sure,’ she said, laughing and crying in one breath, ’I never went on nothing but my own bare feet afore, and but for the grandness, I’d rather walk any day. But I could not ha’ carried you thus far. That were why I were forced to hire a waggon. Not but as though I wouldn’t ha’ done it. I’d ha’ carried you the world over in my airms, if I could, and never let you drop till I died. But—Loramussy! what have become of your clothes? By the blue blazes! this be vaither’s doing.’ ’Joyce, how did this take place? I cannot understand.’ ’The horse were throwed and you with him. Cap’n Sampson had put a gate across the road; and you rode quite innocent like right on to it. After you were down, he came out from behind the hedge, and would ha’ killed you, but your own poor Joyce were there, and her fought ’n, and her tore at ’n. He might ha’ cut her flesh off her bones, and scat her bones, but her’d not hev let ’n hurt you no more.’ Then she seized his hands in a paroxysm of joy and covered them with kisses, and pressed them to her beating heart. ’It were I, your own Joyce, as saved’y.’ See what self-respect will do—how it lifts out of the slough! Once Joyce had licked his hand like a dog. Now she had learned her own worth, she had battled for and saved his dear life; and her pride had heaved her from the low estate of bestiality to the level of a human being. She kissed his hand, she no longer licked it. That marked a distinct stride in civilisation. ’But,’ she added, as she knelt over him, still holding his hand to her bosom, and looked out of her wet and burning eyes into his face, ’it were none for Joyce, nor for Miss Cicely, I did all this—it were for you and the Whiteface.’ Joyce loved him; her love for him filled her whole dim soul with light. She was perfectly humble; she knew she was a poor savage, and as widely removed from him on one side as she was from the fox or badger on the other. There was no self-seeking in her love. It was in this simple, pure, unselfish devotion that the human soul broke into flame and transformed Joyce. She looked up to Herring as she might to a star; she had no thought of attaining to either. It was enough for her to look up and be led by the light each shed on her way.