Every day Joyce came and sat in a nook of the garden against the wall, looking up at the window. Her hands were unoccupied; she could neither knit nor sew. She platted her fingers about one knee and remained in the corner as still as though carved out of stone, almost as rugged as though cut out of granite. Herring’s bed was near the window, and he went to the casement, and leaning on the sill looked forth and spoke to her. Then her eyes, in which a strange wistfulness had risen up, lighted, and she smiled. She had brought him something, a little bunch of late wild flowers, some coral lichen daintily folded in green moss, a cluster of blackberries, old and inedible, but the sole cluster she could find. These little gifts she would intrust to no one to convey to Herring. No other hand should touch them and divert from him the something which went out from her with them. When he came to the window and looked out, she threw them up at him with so sure an aim that the bunch of borage and crane’s-bill, the sprig of heather, or the blackberries, always reached his open hand. This devotion of Joyce was embarrassing to Herring. As he lay in his bed he thought about her, whether something could not be done to bring her out of her rude life. He spoke his thoughts to Cicely, and she promised co-operation. Next day, Cicely took a chair into the garden, and seated herself beside Joyce. The poor girl did not seem pleased with the visit, she had rather be alone. ’I do not think you will see Mr. Herring to-day, Joyce. His head is worse, and he will not be able to rise and speak to you from the window.’ ’Why don’t he get well faster?’ asked Joyce. ’He’d ha’ been right by this time wi’ me.’ ’Well, certainly, you treated him very well. He tells me you gave him capital boiled chicken. How did you manage to get that?’ ’I took her,’ answered Joyce. ’You stole it!’ exclaimed Cicely. ’From whom?’ ’From you. I know’d the young maister must have ’n, and so I took ’n. If he’d hev chanced to want milk, I’d ha’ milked anybody’s cow for ’n. If he’d ha’ wanted your head, I’d ha’ cut ’n off for him—my own likewise, for that matter. Would you?’ ’I do not think I would, Joyce.’ ’Then he ought to hev been with us out to the Giant’s Table, not here.’ ’You profess great readiness to do anything for him, Joyce. He was speaking to me about you yesterday, and wishing I could teach you something.’ ’I don’t want no teaching of nort,’ said Joyce, sullenly. ’But would you not like to learn to knit?’ ’No,’ answered Joyce, ’I don’t want to larn nort. What do’y knit with them long sticking pins?’ ’Stockings, Joyce.’ ’Vaither don’t wear none; I don’t, neither. Them’s no good to us.’ Then the upper casement opened and Herring leaned out. ’What, Joyce!’ he called; ’is Miss Cicely teaching you to knit? That is right. You are going to knit my stockings for me in future. I promise you I will wear none but those of your knitting.’