shoes, and she asked the question listlessly, almost querulously.
"Why, I should think Joyce is in trouble of some kind. Polly said thou wast to go to Steve's cottage as soon as iver ta could."
"Did Joyce send for me? Thou knows I said I'd niver cross her door-stone again until she did."
"It isn't like thee, Sarah, to put if and but in t' way of a kindness. Joyce sent for thee, but happen it is God's message, too, my lass. Thou'lt niver say no, I'm sure."
Sarah was crying softly, she could not have said exactly why.
"Take a drink o' tea—it's ready for thee, and make thy feet dry, and then go thy ways. I'll warrant thou willn't be sorry for it."
"Ay, I'll go, Martha," and having determined to be generous, she made haste to be so. In half an hour she stood within the familiar house-place. A pitiful sight met her. Its best furniture was all gone. There was no fire on the hearth. There was no bread in the cupboard, and Joyce, who was fretful with want and anxiety, was scolding the child crying with hunger on her knee.
