But Joyce seemed to be thinking for a few minutes. Here was a girl whose father had, as everyone thought, been the cause of her father's death; here was the daughter of this man, coming to her and begging to be taken into the house, to be her servant? Was it possible? With a discretion far beyond her years, Joyce said, "I will make inquiries about you from the school mistress, and if I find you really bear a good character, I will get you a place, and----" "I want no place apart from _you_" the girl said, passionately. "If I could die to undo my father's wicked deed, I would die, and," she added, sadly, "it ain't much I have to live for now the baby's gone. But if you won't take me, well, I'll tramp to Bristol; and if I can't get bread in an honest way, I must get it somehow else." "No, no; don't say that. I must consider and think, and if I can take you I will. Mrs. More is so ill, so ill that it is feared she will not live, so I can't write to her. But I will _think_, and," she added, in a low voice, "I will pray about it. I am in great trouble myself; we are all in great trouble." "I know it, I know it. Oh! dear lady, ever since night and day, night and day, I have prayed for you, and that God would keep you." There was something in the girl's despairing voice which touched Joyce to the heart. "Come round to the kitchen door with me," she said, "and I will see that you have rest and food. I am sure you want both." "I don't want rest; there is no rest in me, and food chokes me." But Joyce took no notice of this, and saying, decidedly, "follow me," she put her hand on Piers' shoulder, and they went through the plantation to the house, skirting it to the left instead of crossing it, and so round to the stable-yard and the back premises. Mrs. Falconer never had old maid servants; she trained girls to fill the places in her household, and of these, there was an endless stream passing through. The two in the kitchen now were both kindly, good-tempered girls, utterly ignorant, but simple-hearted and honest. "I want this poor young woman," Joyce said, "to rest by the fire; and give her her supper before she leaves. Sarah, do you hear me?" Joyce said. "Yes, miss, I hear," Sarah said, surveying the poor, forlorn girl with scorn. "Yes, miss. I don't know whether missis would hold with taking in a tramp like her." "I am going to ask mother now," Joyce said; "and I know you are kind-hearted, Sarah, and that you will attend to this poor girl, because I wish it." Sarah gave a low sound, which was taken for consent; and Joyce, judging rightly that Susan Priday would be better left to the servants, went to find her mother. As she crossed the hall she met Ralph. "There are letters from Italy," he said. "Melville had not heard when he wrote." "Where are the letters?" Joyce asked. "Mother has them. There is one for you--not from Italy though; it has the Bristol post-mark, and is franked. There was an immense deal to pay for Melville's."